


The Standard Book of Spells

by canis_m



Series: Book of Spells [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Apprenticeship, Credence Barebone Gets a Hug, Credence Barebone Learning Magic, Domestic Fluff, Falling In Love, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mary Lou Barebone is Her Own Warning, Mind Control, Protective Original Percival Graves, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-09-26 18:48:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9916205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canis_m/pseuds/canis_m
Summary: What happened in a world where Grindelwald never came to New York, and Graves is teaching Credence magic.





	1. Levitation Charm

_I can get away for lunch if you can. Johncy's, 1:00. Want me to pick you up?_

It was a pigeon that brought the note to the apartment. While they left something to be desired in terms of dignity, said Mr. Graves, pigeons were less noticeable in the city than owls, and more cost effective. When tapped gently with a wand, the band on the pigeon's leg unrolled to read _Hello My Name Is Tufty, MACUSA Carrier Pigeon. Please Attach Your Message Here._

Tufty fluffed and strutted on the windowsill, waiting for Credence to write his reply: _I'll meet you there._ He murmured thanks and scattered a handful of millet seed, which Tufty pecked at while he attached the note. 

The bird took off in a bustle of grey wings. Credence watched it arc southward, toward Lower Manhattan, then shut the window and went to wash up. He'd need to hurry if he meant to take the train.

At least he was already dressed for going out. It was a new distinction: dressed for going out, not staying in. Having so many clothes that one had to choose among them. Mr. Graves had gotten his measurements, early on. Credence had learned to stop hemming and hawing and trying to decline when Mr. Graves brought home something new (and fine—the clothes were always fine). Had learned to let himself be coaxed into them-- _just try it on_ \--and persuaded to keep them, if they satisfied Mr. Graves' eye.

What Credence liked best were the old Quodpot sweaters Mr. Graves had given him the day after he moved in, a stopgap, something to wear besides his one woeful suit. But he couldn't wear one of those to lunch, even if a part of him felt he might wear them anywhere and be unashamed.

He put on his hat and coat and gloves, spelled with Warming Charms against the winter wind, and went out, feeling the house wards sweep closed behind him.

*

The diner was in Midtown. Aside from the hidden facade--bespelled with No-Maj-Repellents--it was much like the diner where Mr. Graves had first taken him to eat, before they both found out what Credence was. There was a row of booths, a glossy counter lined with chrome, a glass case displaying homemade pies. The difference was, at Johncy's the cooking was done by magic, and plates were as likely to be floated as carried on a tray.

The lunch crowd was beginning to thin. Some of the patrons looked unremarkable; some had the off-kilter air of wizards and witches trying to pass, with mixed results. There was no sign of Mr. Graves. Credence slid into a booth and huddled over the menu, keeping one eye on the breezeway where customers Apparated in. 

The menu bore a set of illustrations--a steaming coffee cup, buttered toast, pancakes on a griddle--and all of them were moving. The steam wafted, the butter melted, the pancakes flipped themselves onto a plate. Watching them move, Credence smiled a little. He nearly dropped the menu when a waitress appeared and asked what he wanted to drink.

She was young, with bobbed curls and a checkered apron. Credence ducked as if caught in some unseemly act.

"I'm, I'm waiting for someone," he stammered--and then Mr. Graves was there, sweeping in with his long dark coat, his scarf and hair in perfect order, in spite of Apparition and the blustery wind. He slid into the seat across from Credence.

"Sorry I'm late. You already order?"

Credence hurriedly shook his head. The waitress, who had brightened, said good afternoon to Mr. Graves--did they need a minute with the menu?

Mr. Graves scarcely gave it a glance. "I'll have the turkey club. And coffee, please."

The waitress turned to Credence. "For you, honey?"

Reddening, Credence asked for ham and cheese.

"Grilled?"

"Y-Yes, please."

"Swiss, American, cheddar, Monterey Jack, provolone?"

"Um…Swiss. Please."

"White, wheat, or rye?"

It was one question too many. Credence worried his lower lip and, without meaning to, glanced across the table at Mr. Graves.

"Try it on rye," said Mr. Graves. Then, to the waitress, "And bring a cup of the tomato soup."

As the waitress made for the kitchen, wand waving to record the order on a ticket for the cook, Mr. Graves removed his scarf and gloves and laid them on the table. 

"That enough food? You don't want a malt or anything?"

"It's plenty." 

Credence clung to his menu, fingering the paper's edge. In his suit and coat Mr. Graves was almost too splendid to look at. Almost. Credence wasn't sure when it had grown so difficult; the effect was worse, somehow, when they were out in public than at home. But it wasn't always so. Sometimes it was impossible to look at anyone or anything else.

"If you say so. Don't want you to run out of fuel. What are you up to this afternoon?"

"Um, Lapifors," said Credence. His brow furrowed. "I don't…fully understand the purpose of turning things into rabbits." He didn't fully understand what to _do_ with the rabbit, either, once you'd Transfigured something into one. It seemed cruel to change a living creature back into a lump of coal or a sock. He clung to the thought that he'd already learned Avifors, so if he did accomplish the spell, he could at least change the rabbit into a bird, and set it free. 

Mr. Graves' eyes crinkled at the corners. "Those spellbooks are meant for kids, is the thing. It can't be all Scouring Charms. The point is, you learn the basic principles. Once you've got those down, you can apply them to whatever you want. You've done Avifors, now Lapifors. Suppose you wanted to turn something into a dragon."

"Draconifors," said Credence, barely pausing to think.

"Bingo."

"Is it really?"

"It is." Mr. Graves paused. "Maybe don't try that one in the house. Anyway, you get the idea. First the basics, then you start to improvise. Tweak existing spells, compose your own." 

The idea of inventing spells seemed far off to Credence--there were still so many to learn in the books--but if Mr. Graves thought it a matter of course that one day he would, he supposed it must be true. He wanted to ask if Mr. Graves made up spells of his own, what they were for--but then the waitress reappeared with Mr. Graves' coffee (black, no sugar, steaming hot, like in the moving picture on the menu). As she retreated, a bulky man in a grease-spotted apron approached the table. A wand protruded from his apron pocket. 

He offered his broad hand to Mr. Graves. "Good to see you, Director."

"Likewise. Johncy, I'd like you to meet my friend Credence. Credence, this is the man in charge."

"No 'Mister,'" said Mr. Johncy, reaching to shake hands with Credence. "Just Johncy. Like on the sign." His grip was meaty, enthusiastic. "Always glad to meet a friend of Mr. Graves." Rocking back on his heels, he cocked a bristly eyebrow at Mr. Graves. "Might this be the famous apprentice?" 

When Mr. Graves' eyes narrowed, Mr. Johncy made an open-handed gesture, both surrender and denial of guilt. "You know how it is. Word travels fast."

"Credence is an unusual case," said Mr. Graves smoothly. "His magic went undiscovered until recently. Now he's studying with me."

"If it was good enough for Merlin and Nimue, eh? Who cares if it's old fashioned?" Mr. Johncy grinned, then turned more soberly to Credence. "I tip my hat to you, my friend. If I had to learn my charms now, forget it. It's easier for kids, you know? Little sponges. Not just spells, anything. I been trying to learn Spanish—my wife's from Cuba, she's trying to teach me. Like trying to teach a brick. _Te amo,_ I got that down. That's the important one, right?" 

Mr. Graves seemed to be suppressing a smile. "That's right."

"Not to discourage you," said Mr. Johncy, thumping Credence on one shoulder. "You're young, you'll be fine."

"He's a quick learner," said Mr. Graves, raising his coffee to sip.

"I'll bet." Mr. Johncy eyed Credence, considering. "How's your levitation? Can you _Leviosa_ a spoon?"

"Now, you're not on his staff," said Mr. Graves to Credence, holding his gaze with clear intent. "Don't let him boss you around."

"Bossing?" puffed Mr. Johncy. "Who's bossing? I'm giving him a chance to show off."

"I can do it," said Credence. He didn't mind. It warmed him that Mr. Graves had offered an escape, in case an escape was needed, but the charm was easy. With practice had come control; he no longer risked blasting objects into the ceiling like fired rockets on each cast. He drew his wand.

"See? Sure he can," said Mr. Johncy.

If anything daunted Credence, it was the diner's noise: patrons' chatter, the clink of glassware, the unseen sizzle of the grill. He was used to casting in the quiet of the apartment. Fixing his attention only on the spoon, he lifted his wand.

 _Wingardium Leviosa,_ he thought, with perfect clarity. The spoon sprang from the tabletop to float a few feet in the air.

It wobbled only when Mr. Johncy barked and thumped his shoulder again. "Was that wordless? Ay, caramba." 

Credence flushed and let the spoon float down. Across the table Mr. Graves leaned back, arm stretched along the top of the booth, looking on with pure satisfaction. Mr. Johncy wagged a thumb in his direction. 

"Next thing you'll be like this guy, doing it without a wand. Making the rest of us look like clowns." He patted Credence once more. "Listen, Merope'll be right out with your order. I'll let you get back to it. Good to meet you, Credence. Enjoy."

He lumbered off. When he was gone, Credence gave a long exhale. His shoulders sank in relief. 

Mr. Graves caught him at it and crooked a smile. "Johncy's all right. He's a good man to know."

Credence nodded, and then their sandwiches arrived on soaring plates that settled into place at the table. The waitress Merope bustled up in their wake.

"Anything else I can bring you gentlemen?"

Mr. Graves glanced at Credence, who shook his head.

"Not for now," Mr. Graves told her. "Later we'll need the pie report."

"You got it, Mr. Graves."

Credence's ham and cheese was hot off the griddle, served with a pickle spear and a heaping dish of potato salad. As always when they ate away from home, the amount of food confounded him, shocking in its decadence. But Mr. Graves was tucking in, so he did, too, after bowing his head and saying grace.

At intervals Mr. Graves' glance flickered over him, as if to check on his progress. Eating properly was as much an assignment as spellwork, he'd once said. Credence had taken it to heart when he'd realized that Mr. Graves, if left to his own devices, was nearly as bad at eating properly as himself.

The stacked club sandwich seemed too big to fit in any normal human mouth. Mr. Graves was making a go at it. When he caught Credence stealing glances, he offered a quarter. "Want to try?"

Abashed, Credence hung his head. "I have too much as it is."

"If you're sure. I like that about Johncy's, he doesn't shortchange you. Believe it or not, he's been a useful informant a time or two. Keeps his ears open."

Glancing around the diner, Credence asked, "Is that--how he knew--about--"

"About you?" Mr. Graves wiped the twist of his mouth on a napkin. "People talk. It's unusual in this day and age. Apprenticeship. Hasn't always been."

" _A History of Magic_ said it was the standard mode of education through the Middle Ages. Before the schools."

"That's right."

"It said witches usually studied with witches. Wizards with wizards."

"Typically. Not all the time."

Credence chewed thoughtfully. He finished his sandwich and potato salad, clearing every crumb of food from the plate before starting on the soup. "Who was Nimue?"

"Ah--that wouldn't be in the _History_. According to legend, she was Merlin's apprentice. Merlin was crazy about her. She learned everything she could from him, then shut him up in a cave."

Credence dropped his spoon in the soup. Mr. Graves chuckled at his stricken face.

"That's according to some versions. Goldstein would call it anti-female propaganda. Who knows, maybe the cave had a Portkey to Palm Beach. Maybe Merlin was looking to retire. I wouldn't blame him." Mr. Graves sat back in the booth with a sigh.

Picking up the spoon again, Credence hesitated. "Is everything--all right? At your work." He lowered his eyes. "I know there's not much you're allowed to tell me."

"No disasters today," said Mr. Graves. "Just the usual. The usual bullshit. Pardon my vernacular." His gaze rested on Credence as if there were no more restful place. Baffling and impossible as that was, Credence couldn't help but defer to the pleasure in it. He flushed and went on eating. "Soup's all right?"

Spoon in his mouth, Credence nodded. He swallowed. "It's delicious."

"Good," said Mr. Graves.

*

When they finished, Mr. Graves ordered two slices of pie to go, and wrapped up a quarter of his sandwich to send with Credence. 

"In case you get hungry before dinner. No buts," he said, as Credence opened his mouth to protest, or at least suggest that Mr. Graves might want it later at work. Subsiding, Credence sat with hands folded while Mr. Graves paid the check. "C'mon, I'll give you a lift home."

Credence's heart skipped. He looked up. "Do you have time?"

"I do."

Clutching the paper bag that held pie and sandwich, he slipped from the booth and followed Mr. Graves toward the door. 

In the breezeway Mr. Graves took him by the arm--a warm clasp, firm, assured and assuring. Sleek ebony glinted as he drew his wand. Sucking a breath, Credence shuffled closer, as close as he dared to get. Mr. Graves' other hand reached across to steady him.

"Easy," he murmured, and the squeeze Credence felt in his chest wasn't just the onset of Apparition.

The dizzying whorl engulfed them. When the world coalesced again, they stood on the rooftop terrace of Mr. Graves' brownstone, sheltered by tall hedges and Concealment Charms. A sharp wind struck Credence's hair and Mr. Graves' scarf, unsettling their fringes. The evergreens blunted only some of its force.

Mr. Graves hadn't let go of his arm. Credence was glad; without the tether he thought he might come loose and go floating away. He clung as Mr. Graves opened the door.

"I wanted to ask--what Mr. Johncy said--"

They stepped inside, into the hall, Mr. Graves tugging them both out of the wind. "Hm?"

Before they could pull apart, Credence asked, "Do you speak Spanish?"

"A few words. Not enough to write home with."

His pulse stuttered. _"Te amo?"_

Mr. Graves looked at him. Strangely at first, then searching--and then the searching softened to something else. Something with an edge of rue to it, or preemptive regret.

He still had Credence by the arm. His thumb stroked over Credence's wrist--once, twice, gently--before letting go.

"Means I love you," he said.

He stepped through the door, onto the terrace, and raised his wand. His eyes held to Credence as he disappeared in a darkened swirl.


	2. Healing Spell, Part 1

The business had begun when one of Graves' better junior Aurors tried to sink her career like the damned _Titanic._

The problem wasn't that Goldstein had used magic to stop a Puritanical harridan in the act of whipping a kid. That was an infraction, of course--the magic, not the interference with a whipping (alas, Goldstein hadn't thought of leaving her wand in her pocket and just using her fist). But if you knew Goldstein, a spitfire and a softie, you could understand it. There'd been no other witnesses; Graves himself wouldn't have learned of the incident if she hadn't fessed up after the fact. Obliviate the harridan, obliviate the kid, done and done. 

The problem was that Goldstein had gone _back_ , on a subsequent occasion, to a meeting of the New Salem Philanthropic Society, and lit into its harridan in chief at a public meeting. Witnesses galore. It was all Graves could do to contain the damage--the obliviation team worked for hours--and keep the resulting inquiry internal.

"She beats him," gulped Goldstein, tearful in his office, as Graves tried to quash his headache and understand what the hell was going on. "She probably beats them all. I saw him, I saw his hands and I felt--useless. Because stopping it the first time didn't change anything, I had to make her _forget,_ and she's just going to keep hurting him and--"

Graves had little patience for blubbing from his professional staff. It wasn't that he didn't care about a sad No-Maj kid. He'd seen plenty of sad cases in his career. It was his job to care more about the threat of a fringe group gaining legitimacy because its leader had been violently hexed in public by an honest-to-God witch, and the international shitstorm that would ensue if the Statute of Secrecy was violated. And about the President breathing down his neck to stop whatever mystery fiend was leaving buildings across the city in rubble.

He managed, by hook or by crook, to keep Goldstein out of a cell. He put her on suspension, no contact with the Second Salemers allowed.

She begged him, still wobbly-eyed, to check on the kid. In his copious free time.

It was all over, in some sense, when Graves got his first look at Credence Barebone, at the hunched shoulders and wan demeanor, the mournful angel's face. It was over, and it was only just starting.

*

The diner was swamped at lunchtime, booths full of No-Majs scarfing down sandwiches and hot drinks. Graves guided Credence to the two empty seats at the counter, on the far end, side by side.

Credence laid his stack of _WITCHES LIVE AMONG US!_ pamphlets on the counter. He was slow to take off his gloves. At first Graves didn't think much of it: the weather was cold, they hadn't even got their coffee yet. The gloves were as warm as unenchanted gloves could be. Graves would know: he was the one who'd bought them. But then the coffee arrived, and sat steaming in front of Credence, untouched, until Graves looked at him, quizzical, and said, "You want cocoa instead?"

Slowly Credence took off the gloves. He lifted his hands. He tried to keep them pinced shut, like lobster claws, but that didn't hide the ugly welts on the palms.

People liked to talk about seeing red with anger. The haze that smeared Graves' vision wasn't red, but fulminous white. For a minute he thought it might come snarling out of him, storm down the counter, go roaring through the streets with a lashing tail. In its wake trailed chagrin, and a silent apology to Goldstein: too bad she hadn't hexed the Puritan bitch a little harder. He heard himself speaking, incongruously calm.

"Let's see those hands."

He extended his own. Credence sat frozen, staring at his open palm, then looked away. His gaze zigzagged like a scared hare, landing anywhere but on Graves.

"Credence?" murmured Graves, and that seemed to tame the fear. One wounded hand crept toward him. Graves clasped it, turned it, unfolded it as best he could. The healing spell was basic—he didn't need to use a wand, let alone speak aloud—but it did the job. The welts faded. 

Credence let out a held breath, and something in his expression shifted, beginning to ease. 

Graves repeated the healing with the other hand. Credence watched, unbreathing, as the welts melted away. 

"Your 'Ma'?" asked Graves, low. He let go of Credence's hand.

A nod. 

"Happen often?"

For a minute Credence didn't look up, still studying the unmarred skin. He gave a tentative flex of his fingers. Then he looked at Graves. He said nothing, but ashamed admission shadowed the relief on his face. 

Graves reached for his coffee. He took a long swig. It tasted bitter, bottom of the pot, but it kept him from cussing aloud, and damning Goldstein for sticking him in the middle of this. He was in it now, and not likely to get out. 

When he spoke again, he succeeded in sounding almost neutral. "Help me understand. Is there something keeping you there, in that church, with a woman who does this to you?"

The boy looked confused. "She...they're my family."

"Are they?"

"Ma took me in when no one else would have me. She, she wants to help me. To keep me from succumbing to wickedness."

"You believe that? That this is a decent way to treat somebody?" Graves thought he'd kept his voice even, but Credence still winced away. "What about your sisters. Does that--" Graves dipped his chin at Credence's hands "--happen to them, too?" 

Credence bit his lower lip, then shook his head. He spoke in a cowed whisper. "She doesn't...not the belt."

"So if someone were to use a belt on them, to hurt them like that--you wouldn't feel that was all right. You wouldn't like to see it happen."

A headshake: no, no he wouldn't.

Graves leaned in. He spoke almost too low to be heard. "Can you understand that somebody might feel the same about it happening to you?" 

The dark eyes flickered up to him, startled into meeting his gaze. 

Graves held them, steady, then allowed himself another sip of coffee. He'd done enough interrogations to know when the tide was starting to turn his way. "How old are you, Credence?"

"Nineteen, sir."

Not a kid, then, in the eyes of the law. Old enough to walk the hell away from Mary Lou Barebone on his own two feet, if he set his mind to it. Getting him to set his mind to it when she'd done a number on his head for years, that'd be the trick. Graves wanted to sigh, and didn't. He laid his elbow on the counter, then laid his other hand, gently bracing, on Credence's shoulder.

"When I look at you, I see a promising young man. You're smart. You pay attention. You're not scared of hard work. There are plenty of young men your age making their own way in the world. You could do that."

Credence looked to the glint of silver at Graves' vest where the wand handle gleamed. He drew an unsteady breath.

"Could I be like you?" 

Mouth twisting, Graves let his hand drop. He drew his coat over the wand belatedly to cover it, but didn't pretend to misunderstand. 

"People like me are born the way we are," he said. "It's like having curly hair. Or being able to curl your tongue. Either you can or you can't." It hurt to watch the kid's face fall, to see him shutter just when he'd begun to open up. "I know, it's a raw deal. But that's no reason to stay in a bad situation when you don't have to. Ever think about it?"

Credence stared at Graves as if he were speaking in tongues. "Just…leave?"

"What's stopping you?"

"I don't...have any money."

"Say you had a place to stay for a while. Long enough to find a job, get on your feet. Hot meals every day, no worries about rent. Now what's stopping you?"

The hope that crept into Credence's face was thin, a sliver of light under a barred door. "My sister," he said faintly. "Modesty. I can't--"

"Can't leave her?" Graves leaned forward, keen on the scent. If the kid had a protective streak, in spite of fear, he could work with that. "If you had a job and your own place, you could get her out of there. Get her away for good. Send her to school. Give her a different life." 

Credence gripped the counter's edge with white fingers. His eyes continued to widen, as if none of this had occurred to him before. As if he hadn't thought past being a physical shield, a target to draw the blows.

"I'm not saying it'd be easy," added Graves. "But it's possible. Believe me, stranger things have happened in New York." He sat back. "If you decide you want to try it, I can set you up with a place to stay. Don't worry about money. Just think about it, all right? Promise me you'll think about it." 

Silent, Credence nodded. 

Their sandwiches arrived. Graves had forgotten how long it could take to get an order in a No-Maj diner when the place was packed. He glanced at his watch and scowled.

"Ah, hell. I've got to run." He flagged down the waitress and asked for a bag. "You take your time," he said to Credence, digging dollar bills from his pocket to lay them on the counter. "Eat up."

Credence stared at the money. "It's too much," he said hoarsely.

"Order some more, then. Get yourself some pie. Get something for later." Graves laid his hand on the bony shoulder once more, and Credence didn't flinch. "Keep the rest. I don't know how soon I'll be able to get away again. If you need to find me, come to the Woolworth Building after dark." Rising, Graves scooped up the stack of noxious pamphlets and stuffed them into his coat. "Let me take care of these."

He stepped back from the counter, starting for the door. Credence spun on his seat. 

"Mr. Graves--" His voice quavered, rising in pitch. He looked helplessly at the generous plate of food, at his healed hands. "Thank you."

Graves shook his head. "Thank me when I've done something to warrant it." He stepped close to Credence long enough to bend to his ear. "You're bigger than she is, Credence. Remember that."

*

Back at Woolworth, Graves met with the International Security team for their daily briefing, then laired up in his office and sent for Goldstein. He wolfed his turkey sandwich in the time it took her to crawl out of Wand Permits purgatory. When she came straggling in, the look on her face brimmed with such tremulous hope that Graves did the kindest thing he could think of, which was crush it.

"No, you're not reinstated," he said. Her face fell. Graves crumpled the paper wrapping from his sandwich and pitched it in the trash. "You know the deal. Six weeks, unpaid. After that we'll reevaluate."

"I know, I just--I thought--"

"Thought I might change my mind?" Graves propped his elbows on the desk. "How am I supposed to keep order amongst a pack of hothead Aurors if I let them get away with stunts like the one you pulled? Tell me."

Her gray-clad shoulders slumped. She hung her head. "I'm sorry, sir."

"All right, sit." Graves nodded at the chair. She sat. He let her stew for a minute as he finished scanning the final page of a report, then signed off and stamped it. At last he put down his pen. 

"I looked in on him. A few times now."

Goldstein lurched forward in her chair. "Credence?" She looked gratified, as well as faintly shocked. Graves found the shock mildly insulting. "How is he?"

"He's a mess," said Graves curtly. "And whoever did the obliviation, it didn't stick. Were you aware he's not a minor?" 

She blinked. "I thought--he seemed so young--"

"I'm no expert on No-Maj law, but I know if you called the cops about a grown man, a legal adult, letting himself get beat up by a woman, they'd laugh in your face." When she opened her mouth to object, he overrode her. "I'm not saying it's fair. I'm saying it's what would happen."

She shut her mouth again. Then, lowering her mulish head, "I'm afraid you're right."

"So. I tried to put a bug in his ear about getting out of there. What I don't have time to do is look for a No-Maj boarding house where a recently uprooted young man could, if he had a mysterious benefactor, find lodging." Graves laced his fingers, leaving one free to point at Goldstein. "You, on the other hand, have less on your plate."

Her eyes had widened at _mysterious benefactor._ By the time he was done speaking, they'd begun to shine. 

The shining was excessive. For Mercy's sake, put a lid on it, he wanted to say. He settled for shuffling the incident reports on his desk. 

"Nothing fancy," he added. "Just clean. Decent. Away from that damned church."

"Understood, sir. I'll bring you a list."

He grunted. "Go on, then." She sprang from the chair and hopped to obey. "And Goldstein--" She paused at the door, glancing back over her shoulder. "We're not running a charity. I don't have time for it, and neither will you when you're back on the job."

Wry as it was, the smile put some life in her face, and she walked out with her shoulders squared. 

*

That night, in the New Salem church, Mary Lou Barebone observed the unmarked hands of her most wayward child. She beheld this and knew it for what it was: a sign of witchcraft. The Lord God could heal, but it wasn't His touch that had erased those duly given wounds. It was the Devil's.

Too often she'd spared the rod, and look where it had brought them. The lash would no longer serve. If Credence was to be saved at all, they would have to burn the darkness out.


	3. Healing Spell, Part 2

Graves woke to the shrilling of his bedside alarm. It wasn't a clock, but a replica of the Magic Exposure Threat Level monitor in miniature, with a face that glowed in the dark. The largest needle quivered between orange and red. Graves rolled upright and grasped for his wand.

Within five minutes he was dressed. In ten he was stalking into the lobby at MACUSA, where the on-call Aurors of the investigations squad swarmed him like pigeons mobbing a man with a hunk of bread. 

"Sir, there's been another attack--"

"The unidentified entity--"

"Location?" asked Graves.

"Pike Street, sir." That was Hawkins, cool as you please, her red lipstick unsmudged by the unholiness of the hour. "I have a fix on it."

Pike Street, also known as Second Salem headquarters. Graves led Hawkins back out the door and took grim hold of her arm. 

"Let's go," he said.

They Apparated to an alley a few stones' throw from the church. A thin crowd had gathered in front of the church doors, hemmed in by two No-Maj policemen. Graves spotted Mary Lou Barebone, clad in a coat over her nightdress, gesticulating fiercely at one of the cops. Behind her the sisters huddled, shivering in the chill. Their brother was nowhere in sight.

A quarter of the church roof was gone, torn off, as if some huge feral animal had bit down and ripped out a chunk. Splintered wood and shingles littered the street.

Graves gestured for Hawkins to survey the scene and check for traces. He re-cast his Notice-Me-Not and moved closer to the crowd. 

The No-Maj officer was shaking his head. "I'd say lightning strike, most likely--"

"It was _witchcraft,"_ cried Mary Lou. Wind whipped her nightdress around her bony shins. "Laying siege to a house of God! My children and I were in our beds when it struck--a whirlwind of brimstone and smoke! By God's grace we were preserved, but make no mistake, sir: this was the Devil's hand at work."

The cop looked unimpressed, but murmurs ran through the gathered crowd. A hound-faced reporter scribbled notes.

Graves made a circuit of the church, picking his way through wreckage in the dark, and met up with Hawkins on the other side. "Anything?" he asked.

She shook her head and pocketed her standard-issue Sneakoscope. "Magical residue. No tracks. No sign of a trail."

"I'll take another look in the morning, when there's better light," said Graves. "Whatever it is, it can Apparate. Or fly."

"You still think we're dealing with something other than human, sir?" Hawkins wasn't shy of him, didn't mince words; he appreciated that. "Any number of witches and wizards might have sufficient motive to attack this place." A meaningful pause. "I can give you the name of one."

Graves shot her a look. "Tina Goldstein's not a suspect. Neither is Satan."

"If not her, then someone acting on her behalf? Possibly without her knowledge. An associate, someone in her family--"

"Far as I know, she's only got the one sister. You think Queenie Goldstein's the type to go around blowing up roofs?"

Hawkins' lips pursed in concession. 

"Besides, the timeline doesn't add up. You may be right about motive, though." They started back toward the front of the church. "I want you on containment here. Obliviate the reporter, make sure the lightning strike story gains traction. I'll send someone to give you a hand."

"Sir."

The crowd had grown no larger. It was too cold to loiter outdoors in the dead of night, gawping at a jagged maw in a roof. Graves paused at the corner of the alley, searching again for any sign of Credence. At last he stepped fully into darkness and Apparated back to MACUSA, taking his disquiet with him.

Any hope of sleep was gone; might as well ride the adrenaline while it lasted. Graves sent Davis after Hawkins. He ordered his other Aurors to get a list of Second Salem followers, scour previous attack sites for any connection to the group. 

He took himself down to Archives. In the darkened library he pored again through the files on magical creatures, noting those that could move without touching the ground. His instinct still said the culprit was bestial, elemental, but that didn't mean it wasn't acting on human command.

Not for the first time, the description of an Obscurus from a Salem-era chapbook gave him pause. _A dervish cloud of fyre and smoke._ The Barebone woman's voice hissed _brimstone_ in his ear. Factual depiction? Or Biblical hyperbole? He ought to interview the sisters--maybe they knew how to speak without forked tongues. Or Credence, if Credence had gotten a look.

Deferred worry curdled in Graves. He could think of a few reasons why Credence might've been gone in the middle of the night, none of them good. Putting down the chapbook, he rubbed his straining eyes. He wished he'd given the kid a solid means of contact, even if it meant leaving a magical object in his possession. 

Before dawn his empty stomach got the better of him. The cafeteria was closed--even diners wouldn't be open yet. Graves dragged a hand over his chin, grimacing at the stubble, and tried to think what food he had at home. Bread, maybe eggs. No bacon. Times like these he regretted telling his mother he didn't want or need a live-in house-elf at the house in town. At least there'd be coffee. He could spare a half hour to eat, shave, get himself in order.

Light from the streetlamps pooled around him as he left the building. He was turning for the alley to Apparate when something pulled at his awareness, a dark blur at the corner of his eye. He glanced across Broadway to catch sight of a figure crouched at the edge of City Hall Park.

The misery in the hunched shape was familiar. A leaden sinking pulled at Graves' gut. The wind caught his coat and buckled it as he crossed the street, breaking into a lope. When he reached Credence he dropped to a crouch, drew his wand, and summoned a light.

"Credence?"

Credence's head was bowed, his face pinched. He held his left hand strangely, close to his belly, like the wing of a wounded bird. 

"I'm s-sorry," he whimpered. "Sir, I didn't--to come to your work--" A shudder wracked him. He swallowed a moan and bent double over his hand.

"Credence, let me see. Let me help." Graves put an arm around his shoulders to draw him near. "Come on, that's it."

At last he got the hurt hand turned into the light. Weeping blisters covered the entire palm. The burned skin gleamed with hot red inflammation. Credence flinched and bit back another whimper as Graves tilted his wrist.

"Oh, Mercy." Graves' fist tightened on his wand. He aimed it at the burns and muttered _"Aseptify. Episkey--"_

Healing wasn't his forte, but his heart was in the spell. The tip of his wand glowed. Credence shivered, then moaned a small _oh_ and slumped as the pain began to ease. Graves kept casting until the blisters receded, vanishing like dissipated bubbles, and the furious red of burned skin ceded to pink. 

Credence swayed against him. Graves steadied his grip. He glanced around them--up and down the sidewalk, into the park--then back to Credence. Abandoning him was out of the question, and so was sending him home. Resolve snapped into Graves with reckless clarity. He drew the two of them further from the nearest lamppost, into the concealing dark.

"I'm going to do another spell to get us out of here," he said. "It won't feel good, but it'll be over fast. All right?" He waited for the shaky nod. "Easy now. Hold on."

Gripping Credence as tightly as he dared, Graves Disapparated them both.

They reappeared on the rooftop terrace of his townhouse. As the floor grew solid beneath them, Credence pitched forward and heaved, vomiting, but there was nothing in his stomach to come up. Trembling, he wiped trails of spittle from his chin with the back of his wrist. He raised his eyes wretchedly to Graves.

"I'm s--"

"Nothing to be sorry for." Graves drew his handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into Credence's hand. Credence stared at the monogram before raising the cloth to wipe his mouth. "It's a rough trip, but it's the fastest way. We're here, now, come on, let's get you inside." He aimed his wand at the door. He dismissed the spell that barred No-Maj entry, got Credence more or less on his feet, and half-carried him into the hall.

As they crossed the threshold, the house wards flared. Credence staggered, and a shimmer of furious red pealed through the surrounding air. Keyed to Graves' presence, the wards clamored: _alert, intrusion, magical threat--_

Magical?

Frowning, Graves swiped with his wand again. The siren wail in his mind fell mute. He did his best to steady Credence, who was doubled over, gasping hard. 

Graves hadn't laid the wards himself--his mother had--but he'd bolstered them over the years, maintained them with due diligence. He'd never known them to fail or err. He stared down at the boy under his arm, and wondered just what Mary Lou Barebone had thought she was burning when she'd set her own adopted son on fire.

Inside the apartment he got Credence to the old claw-footed sofa. Credence sat shivering, bleached-bone pale. Graves pointed at the hearth, intending to light a fire, then almost at once thought better of it, and cast a Warming Charm on the room instead. Thinking of shock on the battlefield, he called up a blanket and wrapped it around Credence's shoulders. 

"Sorry about the wards," he said, sitting down next to Credence. "They're meant to keep intruders out, not guests."

Credence peered blearily around the room. "Is this...your house?"

"That's right. In Gramercy Park. The spell that brought us here, that's called Apparition." The words came easily, with rising relief, now that Graves suspected he wasn't breaking the law to say them. "How's the hand?"

"Better, sir." Credence looked down at his shoes. "Thank you. I didn't want to disturb you at your work. But it hurt, and I couldn't think, and--" His voice trailed off. "I didn't know where else to go."

"Hurt like hell, you mean. I've had burns before." Lightning burns, curse burns--worst pain he'd ever felt, aside from Crucio. "I'm glad you came to me." He nodded at Credence's hand. "Let's have another look, just in case."

Credence offered his hand without hesitation. Graves examined his palm--still redder than it ought to be--and summoned a tin of salve from his potions cabinet. The tin came whizzing through the air, making Credence start. The salve was herbal, cool and soothing. Graves spread a thin layer on Credence's skin.

"Your Ma again, I take it."

Credence closed his eyes. His body tensed, then trembled. His left hand twitched as if in remembered pain.

"All right, shh, don't go back there," Graves said. "You don't have to tell me. I can guess. She did what she did, and then you took off, is that it?"

After a pause, Credence nodded.

It explained his absence when the roof had been blasted in. Graves' throat closed at the thought of him huddled for hours in some cold and filthy alley, cradling a burned hand.

"If nothing else, I'm glad you got out of there," he said. For the moment he declined to mention the blasted roof. If Credence didn't know, he could wait a little longer to find out. Graves sent the tin of salve zooming back to its cabinet. "This might seem like an odd question, but bear with me. Do you remember anything about your birth mother?"

Blank-faced, Credence shook his head.

"Your Ma ever tell you much about her?"

"She said...my mother was wicked and unnatural. That I was, too."

"Ever notice 'unnatural' things happening around you? Maybe when you were a kid?"

Licking his lip, Credence whispered, "What--what kind of things?"

"Anything strange. Anything you couldn't explain."

Credence looked haunted, but said only, "I don't know."

Graves considered. "I'd like you to do me a favor," he said at last, drawing his wand. He offered it to Credence, hilt first. 

Huddled in the blanket, Credence stared.

"Go on, take it. Just for a bit." 

It had been a dog's age since Graves had given his wand to someone willingly. Peculiar as it felt, he didn't mind putting it in Credence's hand. Nothing happened when Credence wrapped a palm around the silver handle: no fizzle, no spark. But that wasn't unusual with someone else's wand. 

"Try giving it a wave," Graves said.

Credence did. For a moment, still nothing. Graves' heart began to sink. Wrong after all, he thought--the house wards must've misfired--

Then a thin coil of darkness wafted from the ebony tip, like curling smoke.

Graves expelled a breath. He clapped a hand on his own knee, and would've grinned if Credence didn't look so wholly lost. 

Instead he drew the wand gently from Credence's hand. "Remember what I said about people like us being born the way we are?" 

Credence stared at the wisps of smoke that lingered. "Like curly hair," he said.

"You've got it. I just didn't see it until now. Nobody did." Exactly why nobody had--other than a woman who tried to beat and burn it out of him--was a problem for later. "I don't know how much magic you have. Might not be much. But you have it."

Tears glazed Credence's eyes, blurring their edges. "I'm really a witch?"

"A wizard. Witches are the ladies. That's the common parlance, anyway." Seeing that Credence looked more harrowed than thrilled, Graves ran a hand through his hair. "I'm getting ahead of myself. How about some breakfast? I'm hungry, too."

He doubted Credence had gotten supper at all, or kept it down when that hell-bitch put his hand to the flame. He went to the kitchen to make tea with milk and toast with orange marmalade. When he brought them to the living room, Credence startled him by choking out a sob. He sat rocking back and forth on the sofa, face downcast over the plate. 

"Hey, it's okay." Graves touched his shoulder. "You've had a hell of a time." He pulled up a chair and made encouraging noises until Credence, still teary, nibbled the toast and sipped at the tea. "Eat what you can, then try to get some rest. You can take a nap right here." Graves nodded at the sofa. "I need to head back to work for a while. Later, when you wake up, I'll do my best to answer whatever questions you have about magic. All right?"

Credence's throat worked as he swallowed. "Thank you, Mr. Graves."

"You're welcome."

Once Credence had food in his stomach, he looked like he might topple where he sat. Graves brought him a cordial glass of Sleeping Draught, then went to make coffee and toast and eggs over easy for himself. When he returned to the living room, Credence was curled up sideways on the sofa, head on a cushion, eyes closed, mouth slack. His shoes lay on the floor beside the sofa. The woolen blanket engulfed all but his feet and head.

The threadbare socks had been darned, more than once, but ragged holes still pocked them. Somehow the sight of bare skin peeking through the holes pricked at Graves' heart, after everything else. He muttered a mending charm and watched the holes close, then reached for the blanket to tug it over Credence's feet.

He sat back in his chair and drank his coffee, studying the sleeping boy. Seeing him like this, safe from pain, soft with sleep, you couldn't help but catch a glimpse of what he could be, with time and care. If someone were to feed him up, let that sorry haircut grow, put him in decent clothes--

Graves let the train of thought derail. He took another swig of coffee, and considered spiking it with Firewhiskey to clear his head. More to the point, the kid would need magic lessons and a job. Even if his magical aptitude turned out to be small, as Graves thought it might--how else would it have gone unnoticed so long?--there was no shortage of work in New York for a young wizard with his wits about him. Hell, there was plenty at MACUSA. Maybe they could use him in Wand Permits when Goldstein's stint was up. It was stultifying down there, but a quiet routine might suit, at least to start. If Credence had better ideas once he'd found his footing, all to the good. 

The boarding house plan was solid. He'd just tell Goldstein to find a wizard-friendly one instead. Have her look up Charms teachers while she was at it. The money was nothing--Graves could foot the bills until Credence could pay his own way. After that, if Credence wasn't fed up with his meddling, maybe look in on him now and then, as a friendly uncle might.

Sure, a friendly uncle. Graves huffed into his coffee and knocked it back. 

He went to the bathroom long enough to dash cold water on his face, mutter a Depilatory Charm, straighten his cuffs and tie. By the time he Apparated back downtown, dawn had broken over the skyscrapers, scattering shards of morning light.

*

Investigation by daylight dredged no new clues from the church wreckage. Graves sent Hawkins and Davis home and called other Aurors to replace them on the scene. He'd barely made it to the lobby back at MACUSA when a summons from the President caught him, not a paper mouse but a paper eagle that swooped and landed on his arm. It mantled, talons piercing. Graves changed course for her office, setting his jaw when the eagle dug into his wrist.

If Picquery's night had been as bollixed as his own, she didn't deign to show it, at least not at a glance. Graves had to respect her commitment to poise. As he entered the office, she rose from her ponderous desk to pace. 

"Last night's attack," she said, without preamble. "What do we know?"

"Good morning to you, too, Madam President." Picquery gave him a we-are-not-amused sort of glare. Graves shook the paper eagle from his arm, unrepentant--she knew he hated it when her birds clawed him--and forebore to ask whether she'd had her chicory coffee yet. "It happened at the New Salem church, between one and two a.m. Damage is consistent with previous incidents, if less severe. The church is still standing."

"But it was targeted?"

"We're working to determine that. My team's looking for connections with the previous sites. New Salem supporters who were residents of the destroyed buildings, anything of that nature. We're continuing to monitor the church."

Eyes narrowed, Picquery nodded. "You theorized that the attacker wasn't human. Has that changed?"

"I believe the destructive force itself isn't human," said Graves. "But a witch or wizard may be guiding it."

"A beast on a leash."

"Something like."

"Then find the handler, Graves." She leaned over the desk, fists braced against the smooth mahogany. Her fingers tightened like a noose. "We need to put an end to this."

*

By afternoon no new leads had emerged. Graves rousted empty-handed Aurors from his office with rising ire as the day went on. The thought of Credence unattended in his apartment gnawed at him, until at last he said to hell with it, and told his secretary he was taking a late lunch. He sent Picquery an update the coward's way--by memo--and left the building.

He Apparated first to his favorite diner in Midtown. Plenty of seats were open; when Graves declined to take one, the waitress sauntered up.

"Afternoon, Mr. Graves. Something to go?"

Graves glanced at the menu. "What's the soup?"

"Split pea or chicken dumpling."

He put the menu down. "Merope, you're a hero." If chicken soup from Johncy's couldn't soothe the wizarding soul, nothing could. "I need a flagon of the chicken dumpling. And dinner rolls to go with."

She brought the soup out in a small cauldron, the rolls wrapped in a bag. Graves handed over his dragot, hung the cauldron on his forearm, and Apparated home.

Credence was still insensate on the sofa, so Graves set the cauldron on the stove to warm. He busied himself with a glass of single malt and a swift pass through the daily _Ghost_. 

At last Credence began to stir. When he first woke, he seemed dazed anew by his surroundings, groggy from the Sleeping Draught, apt to totter as Graves showed him the bathroom. By the time he returned to the kitchen he was more composed. 

He sat down at the table, tucking his limbs close to his body, as if trying not to take up space. Then he stared, mouth drifting open, while napkins and bowls and silverware floated from the cabinets to arrange themselves. As the soup ladled itself into his bowl, his eyes went glassy. For a minute Graves thought they were in for more tears, but Credence blinked them away.

He bowed his head over the soup. "Am I--" His voice faltered. "Am I allowed to say grace?"

"Sure, if you want," said Graves, surprised. He set down the butter knife and waited.

Folding his hands, Credence drew a shaky breath. "Bless us, Lord," he whispered, "and these thy gifts--"

The rest was too huskily mumbled for Graves to catch. When he finished the prayer, Credence paled and looked up, as if he expected another hammering from the wards. Hoping to suggest calm by example, Graves reached to butter a roll.

"There's plenty," he said. "Have as much as you want."

Credence thanked him, then proceeded to eat exactly one bowl of soup and exactly one roll, unbuttered. Butter was evidently a sin. Rueful, Graves waited until a hint of color had returned to Credence's cheeks before broaching the matter at hand.

"I'm sure you have questions. Maybe more than I can answer in one go, but try me."

The color in Credence's face seeped out. He lowered his hands to his lap.

"When--" He swallowed. "When will I have to sign the book?"

Graves wiped his mouth on a napkin, mindful not to frown. "What book?"

Credence seemed to shrink in his chair. "The--the compact?" 

"Not sure I follow."

Mastering himself visibly, Credence said, "To consign my soul to Satan in exchange for control of the powers of witchcraft, and a life of sinful luxury on earth." 

His gaze flickered sideways, as if to indict Graves' whole apartment and the comforts therein.

Graves nearly spat a dumpling. He paused again to wipe his mouth. "We may have some misconceptions here," he said. "Credence, I promise, on my honor, there's no pact. There's no book. I don't claim to be a saint, but I've never said two words to the Devil. Not as far as I'm aware."

When he saw that Graves was in earnest, Credence looked bewildered all over again. "Then how do you control it?"

"What, magic?"

Credence nodded.

"Same as anything else." Graves flicked a finger, and the butter knife went twirling in the air. "Practice." 

"With practice, you, you can control the darkness?" Credence spoke with increasing desperation. "So it won't--hurt people?"

There came a point, in the course of certain baffling investigations, when a sense arose in Graves that some vital piece of evidence lay in his reach, under his nose, eluding his grasp. The sense harangued him now. He put down the butter knife and spoke with care.

"What exactly do you mean by 'darkness'?" he asked. "It's all right, you can tell me. I just want to be clear."

Credence gripped the edge of the table. His eyes unfocused, staring with inward-facing dread.

"I used to think they were dreams," he said. "I'd have them after Ma would...after I did something wrong. I thought it was the part of me that hated being punished. The sinful part. It felt like a storm inside me. Like fire and smoke. I dreamed it would come out sometimes and...go free."

His fingers clung to the table's edge. 

"Last night I wasn't sleeping. My hand hurt too much. I can't remember what happened. Everyone was in bed, I was lying there, trying not to make a sound--then Ma and Modesty were screaming, and then the roof was gone--" His face crumpled. "I can't remember, Mr. Graves, I swear--"

A curl of darkness rose behind Credence--rose _from_ him, trailing upward, like the one that had issued from Graves' wand when Credence took it in hand. Another curl followed the first, and another, spreading like spilled ink, like smoke. 

Graves shoved back his chair, hand on the hilt of his wand. Credence made a reedy sound and clutched himself, hugging his own shoulders. The rims of his eyes flashed piteous white.

"Please help me," he gasped. "If wizards have these things in them, please. I don't know how to make it stop."

Graves could be forgiven, maybe, for not knowing an Obscurial at his kitchen table. There hadn't been one on American soil in more than a hundred years. They died as children, he'd read. The Obscurus sucked the magic from them, drained the life out, tore their inner strength to shreds.

Tore the roof off a church that held the woman who'd hurt its host one time too many.

_Fire and smoke._

"Mercy Lewis," said Graves. "It's you."


	4. Wand-Lighting Charm

Mr. Graves _apologized._ Earnestly, with a crease in his brow, as if he believed it some sort of trial for Credence to stay in his house. To stay, and not to go out unless Mr. Graves were with him. As if Mr. Graves, not Credence, were the one imposing a burden. 

"Just for now," he said. "Until we can be sure your murky friend won't go running amok."

When that would be, Mr. Graves didn't say, and Credence didn't ask. Mr. Graves had soothed him out of his panic at the table, had left his wand in his pocket in favor of laying a hand on Credence's shoulder and speaking quietly, _it's all right, I'll help you, it'll be all right,_ as if the monstrous darkness rising out of Credence were no more than the raised hackles of a scared cat. The tumult had receded, then, without destroying anything. Credence wasn't sure he'd be so lucky again.

In any case, he didn't feel confined in the apartment. Maybe in springtime he might have, when the trees of Gramercy Park were spreading new leaves in the sun, but autumn was just shading to winter, and the cold of the city streets was in his bones. The church, too, had always been cold. Mr. Graves' house was warm. Its other luxuries could be resisted, but after only a few days by the fireside, a few nights in the soft, warm bed, Credence was spoiled with it. He felt as if he'd slipped into a pillowy dream-world, and shed the threadbare coat of his old life.

He didn't miss the church, or Ma. He missed Chastity a little, and Modesty with a lasting ache, but he understood that it was best for him not to see them, given what he was. Not only was he guilty of witchcraft, he was the most infernal sort of witch ( _wizard,_ Mr. Graves would say): one whose powers had developed wrongly, like an ingrown nail. His magic wasn't at all like Mr. Graves', which unfurled beautifully and with robust ease at whatever task Mr. Graves put it to. It was a garbled, ugly thing, crouched in the worst recesses of the heart.

And it was miserly. Mr. Graves tried to teach him a few spells, using his own wand of ebony and silver. Simple spells: _Lumos_ to make a light, _Nox_ to snuff it. The ebony wand was smooth, sleek, solid in Credence's hand. He didn't need to be told to handle it with breathless care. He wanted to do well with it, to be worthy of its use.

He could call up flickers, sometimes, no brighter than an ember. More often he produced only smoke.

At first Mr. Graves suspected the wand. It wasn't easy to use someone else's, he said, even if the wand allowed it. He brought home others for Credence to try, a small selection: willow and cedar, blackthorn and ash.

"All impounded," he told Credence, with a smile so sly that Credence almost missed it. (The memory of it would preoccupy him later, when he lay curled in bed that night.) But the result was the same with every wand.

After that, Mr. Graves blamed the Obscurus. It wasn't that Credence didn't have power, he said, putting the wands back in their boxes. "You must have it in spades. Otherwise you wouldn't be here. But that thing's eating it up."

Not once did Mr. Graves blame Credence. He didn't have to, not when Credence understood the truth: that he was shameful and unnatural even among witches. He found this wholly unsurprising. In her way, Ma had been right about him all along. 

Despite that--or because of it, because it was Mr. Graves' job to keep people safe--it was given to Credence now to stay in his sumptuous apartment, full of extravagances both magical and mundane. The chess set, for instance, had pieces that moved of their own volition--pugnacious things--while the gramophone was a model Credence had once seen gleaming in a shop window, proudly on display. The icebox in the kitchen looked like an ordinary icebox, but it was magic that kept its contents chilled, not a block of ordinary ice.

Credence couldn't be sure, since he hadn't viewed the house from outside, but he thought the interior seemed larger than it ought to. If one were to judge by its proximity to other doorways, the door to the guest room Mr. Graves had given him looked impossible, as if a room shouldn't fit there at all. A closet, maybe. But when you opened the door, there was a cozy bedroom: upholstered chair and writing-desk and wardrobe, and the bed with its soft coverlet of down.

The house belonged to Mr. Graves' family, by which Credence understood that they were unspeakably rich. Mr. Graves' apartment comprised the top floor. The other floors were furnished, said Mr. Graves, "In case my mother wants to come to town and play hostess. She hasn't much, lately. If she decides to turn up, she'll send Tibby ahead." Then, at Credence's blank look, "Tibby's the house-elf. The two of them are in cahoots. They don't trust me to keep things decent around here." A pause. "You read about house-elves yet?"

Reading had become Credence's chief occupation. Spells aside, there was still a daunting amount for him to learn. Mr. Graves had supplied him with a stack of books and newspapers with moving pictures, saying Credence might as well study up while he could. So while Mr. Graves was at work, Credence sat with a book in the chair by the fireplace, which Mr. Graves had bespelled to burn purple, because purple flames were too outlandish to remind Credence of what fire had done to his hand.

It felt like indolence, verging on the sin of sloth. Credence wanted to offer to do more, to cook or clean, but the meager soups and porridges he knew how to make couldn't compare to what Mr. Graves brought home: meatloaf with mashed potatoes, spaghetti and meatballs, pastrami on rye. And Mr. Graves cleaned anything that needed cleaning with a wave of his wand. Or rather (speaking of indolence--though Mr. Graves wasn't slothful, not at all), he waved his wand, and the thing cleaned itself. 

Besides, said Mr. Graves, there was Tibby. "She comes in once a week to spit-shine the place. It's mainly an excuse to keep tabs on me. Don't worry, I'll introduce you."

Credence read about house-elves, trying not to think of demon servants all the while, but no amount of reading could prepare him for the morning when one Apparated into the living room with a pop.

She was small, no taller than a small child, and mostly hairless. Pointed ears protruded from the kerchief on her head. Despite what Credence's book had claimed about house-elves and clothing, she wore a handsome grey dress, perfectly tailored, of some fabric that rippled with hints of shining color, like the iridescent feathers on a pigeon's neck. Over the dress she wore a white apron with striking lines. Her eyes were huge and bulbous. 

They widened when she saw Credence, who stood dumbfounded in the entrance to the room.

She clapped a gnarled hand to her breast and squeaked.

Mr. Graves appeared in the hallway with his tie draped around his neck, not yet knotted, and a smear of shaving cream on his jaw. The gape of his open collar was startling. He patted Credence on the shoulder, and Credence jumped aside.

"There you are," said Mr. Graves to the house-elf. He wiped the shaving cream from his face. "Tibby, meet Credence. Credence, Tibby."

Tibby peered at Credence with beady speculation, then turned on Mr. Graves with a look of flat reproof.

"It's not what you think," Mr. Graves said. 

Despite being half Mr. Graves' height, if that, the house-elf succeeded in glaring down her nose at him. She spoke in a querulous tone. "It's not Tibby's place to malign the master's habits--"

"Oh, boy."

"--and it would gladden Tibby's heart to see Master Graves with a boon companion, but what your lady mother would say about his _age_ \--"

"She'd say I'm doing the right thing," said Mr. Graves, "if she knew the whole picture. Remember your cousin? How we all helped her out? Same deal."

The elf's ears lifted. She gazed again at Credence. "Like cousin Liddy?"

Mr. Graves nodded.

"Oh, no. Oh, my. Poor dear." She bustled up to Credence and tucked his hand between hers, clasping gently. Her skin was papery and dry. "But you mustn't be timid here. If Master Graves isn't tending to your needs, you mustn't be afraid to speak up." 

Her eye fell on the sweater Credence wore, which bore knit lettering that read WAMPUS '03, and a feline face that snarled if you looked at it too long or too intently. Her expression grew severe. 

"Mistress Graves says everyone in the household should be attired as befits the dignity of the house. Master Graves means well, for the most part, but he's given to distraction--"

"I have _a job,"_ said Mr. Graves, raking a hand through his hair. "He's been here three days. I haven't made it to the tailor." Glancing at his watch, he spun on his heel toward the bedroom. "Hell, I'm going to be late."

Credence and the house-elf peeked uncertainly at one another. Then Tibby brightened.

"Has Mr. Credence had his breakfast yet?"

*

Graves spent the morning overseeing the non-advancement of a now-defunct investigation. Withholding certain key details from his boss--such as the fact that he had the perpetrator (more or less) under house arrest--bothered him less than the waste of resources: it rankled to send Aurors on goose chases when there was real work to be done. By the time the President's paper eagle swooped in to harass him, Graves was ready to drop his bomb.

"We've been looking for a witch or wizard," he said to Picquery in her office. "I think we should try looking for a kid."

The President stared.

"We can't find any connections among the attack sites. Maybe there aren't any to find. The records say Obscurus attacks are erratic. There's no planning, no premeditation. The thing just--" He flicked his hand. "Lashes out."

She drew herself up in steely recoil. "You're suggesting we have an Obscurial in New York."

"It fits the profile. Could be a No-Maj-born. Could be a half-blood someone abandoned to hide their little 'mistake.'" Picquery looked pained. Graves continued, relentless. "Disowned or orphaned. Like one of those starving waifs at the church." 

He could see her gears grinding in resistance: the first Obscurial in centuries, on _her_ watch? And it'd be bad publicity to incarcerate a kid. Graves refrained from pointing out that she wasn't up for reelection. 

"Then why bite the hand that feeds it?" she said.

"You might, too, if your only meal ticket told you you're going to hell."

She didn't like it, any of it, but disliking something had never stopped Seraphina Picquery from making it happen. "How do you propose to find this waif, among all the others? Assuming it exists."

"Feed them," said Graves. She stared at him as if he'd sprouted a halo, and it was getting in the way of his horns. "I'm serious. That church hasn't been feeding anybody since the roof blew off. We start feeding the street kids in the neighborhood, and get a Legilimens to snoop in their heads."

Picquery leveled a look. "If that's what it takes." She told him to see to it, and wearily waved him out.

As red herrings went, it wasn't bad. At least some hungry orphans would get a meal out of it. Graves sent for Queenie Goldstein. A short time later she stepped into his office on her strappy heels, uncertainty bright in her smile. 

"You wanted to see me, Mr. Graves?" 

He nodded to the chair. "Thanks for coming, Miss Goldstein. I need to ask a favor."

*

He Apparated home for lunch to find Credence captive at the dining table, owl-eyed, while Tibby floated an armada of food from the kitchen. There was roast beef with mashed potatoes, roasted carrots and parsnips, winter squash with butter and brown sugar, a salad of golden beets. She'd used the heirloom plates, the ones emblazoned with the family crest. Graves took off his coat and went to wash up.

"Look at all this," he said, returning to the table. He spread one of the embroidered napkins over his lap. "What a treat."

Tibby glared. "Since the master has been neglecting to show proper hospitality--"

"I've been feeding him, Tibby."

 _"Diner_ food," she scoffed, as a platter of roasted brussels sprouts came careening through the air. The other dishes dished themselves onto the plates. Credence was bent over his folded hands, mumbling grace, or maybe just praying for strength.

"Now, just because a house-elf didn't cook it--" 

"Greasy," huffed Tibby. "Impersonal."

Graves poured a glass of Bordeaux from the bottle on the table. "Say that to Johncy's face, I dare you."

"Unfit for a growing boy. No wonder he's skin and bones."

Credence set down his fork. He raised his head a little, meeting no one's eyes. His voice was quiet but clear. 

"Mr. Graves hasn't served anything but wonderful meals. I'm just not used to eating very much."

He picked up his fork and resumed battle against his mountain of mashed potatoes.

The defense vindicated Graves beyond all reasonable proportion. Raising his eyebrows, he looked at Tibby: _there, see?_

"Well! Tibby is relieved to hear it." Ears twitching, she marched into the kitchen and left them to eat. 

Her abrupt departure seemed to abash Credence. "Isn't she going to eat, too?"

"After we do, she will."

"But...she made all this."

"It's like at a restaurant. The chef doesn't sit down to dinner with you. Tibby's like a top-notch chef who comes to the house. That's on top of being a top-notch housekeeper." Graves pitched his voice to be heard in the kitchen. "Best way to show appreciation is to eat up." 

As usual, Credence cleaned his plate, but made no move to reach for another helping. Graves decided it was time for drastic measures, now that the cavalry was here.

"Something the matter with the food?" 

"No," said Credence quickly, "no, it's delicious--"

Tibby poked her head out from the kitchen, ears a-quiver, eyes wide. Credence caught sight of her and paled.

"So you say," said Graves, sipping his wine. "But I don't see you going for seconds. You wouldn't want to hurt Tibby's feelings, would you? After she put in all that work?"

Tibby clung to the kitchen doorframe. Her round eyes bulged with unshed tears. Masterful, thought Graves. He flicked her a thumbs-up under the table.

"No, I--it's very good, I." Credence curled his hands into the napkin on his lap. "I could eat a little more."

"Attaboy."

Credence looked up, softly startled, as if the word were as foreign as a spell. His eyes met Graves' across the table. Then he ducked his chin and went after the sprouts that had piled onto his plate.

Praise didn't always spring naturally from Graves, at least not in the direction of his subordinates. If he gave his Aurors a good word, they knew they'd earned it, and they might not earn it again for a while. He'd need to be less sparing with Credence. To give more, to insist on it, until Credence learned the foreign spell by heart.

When Tibby unveiled her chocolate roulade, Credence turned green at the gills. The cake would keep--and after all, it wasn't meant to be torture--so Graves took pity. Excused from the table, Credence shuffled away to his reading, eyes glazed.

"If he nods off, try not to wake him," said Graves to Tibby, sotto voce, in the kitchen after the table was cleared. "He probably thinks naps are a sin, too."

"Poor dear. Tibby will be quiet as a mouse."

"And do me a favor--don't mention him to my mother. Not just yet. The situation's dicey. I'll tell her myself soon, I promise."

Tibby furrowed her brow. Then she blinked, and her expression cleared to one of exaggerated piety. "Perhaps if Tibby were to receive a token of good faith--a symbol of Master Graves' assurance--"

Little extortionist, thought Graves. But he'd expected this. Opening one of the cabinets, he pulled out a bottle of Pinnock's with a velvet bow around the neck. He knelt to Tibby's eye level and presented it with a flourish. 

Pinned to the ribbon was a gold brooch in the shape of a bee. Faceted citrines glittered across its midriff in honey-colored bands. Tibby unfastened the brooch from the ribbon and cupped it in her palm, looking questioningly at Graves.

"They're industrious," he said. "They don't sting unless they have to. They make honey, they protect the hive and guard the queen. Sounds about right, don't you think?"

With a squeak she batted him on the shoulder, clutching the brooch in her hand. 

"Get along with you! To think the young master was once a babe on Tibby's knee. Now here he is, grown so big, saying such things." 

She pinned the brooch to her dress, above the apron, and tilted it back and forth to admire its shine. Then she snatched up the bottle of Gigglewater and cavorted in place, hefting it like a prize above her head.

After the fit of gloating, she comported herself. "Thank you, Master Graves," she crooned. "Tibby will enjoy the gifts. Tibby feels she may quite forget to mention any houseguests to your lady mother." Her ears waggled. "At least until next week."

*

On his way back into Woolworth, Graves collided with Tina Goldstein outside the revolving doors. Their elbows jostled, nearly knocking the hot dog from her grip. Relish and mustard glopped over her thumb. She seemed more concerned with the state of his sleeve than the mess on her hand.

"Mr. Graves, I'm so sorry!" 

"No harm done," he said. "Glad I didn't make you lose your lunch."

When she was sure his coat was unbesmirched, Goldstein pulled a tissue from her pocket to dab at her thumb. "Sir, since you're here--I have the list."

He frowned. "List?"

"The one you asked for. The place in Chelsea had the sweetest landlady, but any of them should be all right."

 _That_ list. "Ah--put it in my inbox, will you?" Graves tried to look preoccupied with very important Major Investigations, and not as if the boarding house idea had flown clean out of his head. "I'll take a look."

"Of course, sir." Hesitating, Goldstein said, "I heard about what happened. At the church. The newspaper said 'lightning strike,' but--"

The set of Graves' eyebrows tipped to rebuke. "Now, you know I can't comment when you're not part of the investigation."

"No, I know. I was just." She looked down. "Concerned."

A spasm of conscience smote Graves. He couldn't blame her for worrying. Here she stood, subdued and demoted--and for what? For defending a fellow magic user against Puritan violence, and for pointing Graves, however unwittingly, straight at the source of the magical attacks. He ought to have given her a promotion.

If nothing else, he could get her out of purgatory. "He's all right, for the moment. I'll keep you posted. Speaking of charity cases, I might have another job for you. I'll clear it with Abernathy. Ask your sister about it, she'll fill you in." He put his hand on the door and gave her a little salute. "Thanks for the list."

She cocked her head at him, quizzical but pleased. "Happy to do it, sir."

"Oh, and Goldstein, you've got--" He gestured at his own mouth, then nodded at hers with his chin. 

She reddened, and was frantically dabbing away mustard as he pushed through the door.

*

For dinner there were roast beef sandwiches, and the chocolate roulade with coffee for dessert. Credence ate seconds of his vegetables without being prompted, then bravely accepted a slice of cake. The look on his face at first bite was thunderstruck.

Graves didn't ask if he'd ever tasted chocolate cake before. He watched Credence mouthing with dazed slowness, watched his eyes drift helplessly shut. From no butter to cake in the space of a week, now, that was progress. He wished there'd been as much progress on other fronts--say, the little matter of the Obscurus--but maybe that was too much to ask.

"So," he said, pouring himself a glass of whisky, "now you know Tibby. You want a drink? I'm having a drink."

"No thank you, sir." A pause. "I was taught drinking leads to debauchery and a life of dissolution."

"'Course you were." Graves left the table in favor of his fireside chair, craning his neck to work out the cricks. He sank into the chair with a sigh. "Let me know when the debauchery's about to start. Hate to miss it."

Credence followed him into the living room, settling into a self-contained perch on the couch. "Has Tibby…been with your family long?"

"Ages," said Graves. "She was freed before I was born, not that you'd notice. Won't accept a salary, but she will take 'gifts,' so we try to keep the gifts commensurate." The honeybee brooch had been eighteen karat gold. "Wild Graphorns couldn't drag her from my mother. They're good company for each other, I guess. Especially since--" He took a drink, let it sear his throat going down. "Since my father passed."

At Credence's look of wordless sympathy, Graves shook his head. "Old man should've stayed home instead of running off to war. But we've never been much for sitting on the sidelines. My brother aside."

"You have a brother, sir?"

"One. Younger. We're not on the best of terms. He did find himself a nice witch and make some little Graveses, though. Took some of the pressure off." Graves slid the ice cubes sideways in his glass. If they were going to keep chatting about family, he was going to need a refill on the Scotch.

"Do you have sisters?" 

"No sisters." Graves looked at Credence. "You're worried about yours, aren't you. The little one. Modesty."

Credence said nothing, only lowered his eyes--as if it were something to feel ashamed about--then nodded. Graves didn't have the heart to muster exasperation, or anything but a dull pang. 

The law made provision for families of witches and wizards born to No-Majs. Parents were sworn to secrecy, with Unbreakable Vows, but they could keep the memory of their magical child, their awareness of the wizarding world. Siblings likewise. If the parents denied the child's right to magical education, that was when things got hairy. Obliviation for the whole family was the standard cure.

It would be simpler to erase all memory of Credence from his family's minds. Simpler, safer. A cleaner break. But Graves couldn't do the reverse, and Credence would continue to worry about the sister who'd forgotten him, with reason. Even if Mary Lou went easier on the girls than she had on him, that wasn't saying much.

Graves had resolved not to collect any more Barebones. He wasn't a rescue league. He had his hands full with just the one. 

He didn't think that let him fully off the hook.

"I'll look in on her," he said, "soon as I can," and a flush of thanks covered Credence's face.


	5. Memory Charm

The former cafe's window gleamed with new paint: _Mercy Lewis Ladies' Aid Society,_ it read, in neat gold lettering. Inside, trestle tables stood in front of a counter, filling the bright, narrow space. At the counter stood a woman wearing trousers, looking disgruntled as she sliced thick loaves of bread into hunks. Behind her simmered a pot, almost a cauldron, of soup on a stove. A blonde lady in pink tended the pot, pausing often to gaze at the children who sat at the tables, hunched over steaming bowls.

Modesty paced back and forth in front of the window. She eyed the sidewalk sign that boasted _Free Meals For Needy Children (Must Be Under 16)._ Some of the faces at the tables were familiar; she knew them from suppers at the church. As far as she could tell, the Aid Society ladies weren't making anyone do anything in exchange for food. No leaflets in sight. Modesty looked down at the sheaf of papers in her fist and frowned.

She'd eaten lunch already--a thin sandwich of bread and cheese--but her stomach still rumbled. Ma was busy at the church. Chastity had stayed at her post up the street, handing out flyers, refusing to budge when Modesty tugged at her sleeve.

Credence would've come, if he were here, but Credence was--

Her throat closed. Her eyes stung. She snuffled, wiping her nose, as her stomach gurgled again.

Gluttony was a sin, Ma always said. Ma said a lot of things. Modesty pressed her forehead to the window, breathing clouds against the glass.

*

"Not running a charity, he said," Tina muttered. "You won't have time for it, he said." She glanced sideways, then fished into her pocket for her wand. Keeping it out of sight, she cast a Muffling Charm. "Anything?"

Queenie shook her head. She was putting on a brave face, but Tina could tell by the set of her lips and the strained sheen of her eyes that she was flagging. How many kids had there been--two dozen? Thirty?

"You don't have to keep doing this," Tina said.

"Mr. Graves asked me specially, though."

"He asked. You can say no." Queenie wasn't the only Legilimens at MACUSA, not by a long shot. Tina sawed into another loaf of bread, digging in grimly with her knife. "Someone else could take over. Someone who's actually in the department."

"They're not so approachable, is what he said. Might scare off the kids." 

A likely story, thought Tina. Never mind that it was also true. "He's trying to recruit you. You know that, right? If you don't put your foot down, this won't be the end of it."

Queenie fluttered her lashes. "You don't think I'm Security material? Gosh, Teen. Didn't bother me any when you came down to Permits to help out."

Tina blinked. "I'm not--" She broke off, examining her own indignance. If she was feeling defensive, it wasn't over professional turf.

 _There are some heads you shouldn't have to look into,_ she thought, loud and clear. _That's all._

"I know. But I don't mind. Not for this." Queenie gave a little shrug. "It's more fun than unjinxing the john."

"Who keeps jinxing it, anyway? Who jinxes a _toilet?"_

"It's Mr. Abernathy. He does it on purpose, so's he can get one of us girls to go in there with him alone."

"Eugh!" Tina recoiled. "That's it. I'm casting _Furnunculus_ on it. Next time he tries it he'll break out in hives."

Queenie giggled. Her smile waned again as she gazed over the row of scruffy bent heads. "You really think one of these could be--" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "The O-word?"

"Maybe," said Tina. There was a dreadful logic to the theory. She didn't want to believe it, any more than Queenie did. Obscurials belonged to the past, to a more tormented span of history. But Mary Lou Barebone was doing everything in her power to revive that time. Maybe she'd revived its nightmares, too.

"Let's say we do find one. What happens then?" Queenie's voice dropped even further. "You're not gonna arrest a kid, are you?"

"Not arrest," Tina said quickly. "We'd need to take her into custody. Or him. For protection."

"Then what?"

Tina stopped slicing. The knife's serrated edge glinted above her hand. "I don't know. They don't...they don't live very long. Is what I've read."

Queenie looked solemn. "It's awful, some of the stuff in their heads," she whispered, nodding at the assembled kids. "I used to think the two of us had it rough, losing Ma and Pa the way we did, but this--"

"Oh, no." 

Tina stared at the shop front, where a small face hovered at the window, peering through the glass. The blue coat, the gray cap, the snub nose gone pink with cold--she knew them. She dropped the bread knife and whirled away from the door.

"Tina?"

"That's Modesty Barebone," she whispered. "I'm not supposed to--oh, _snidgets!_ If Mr. Graves finds out--"

The doorbell jingled. Modesty slipped inside and ghosted slowly toward the counter, gaze fixed on the cauldron of soup.

"Hi, honey," said Queenie. "You hungry? C'mon in, don't be shy."

Bathroom, thought Tina frantically—she could escape to the bathroom. No one could say she'd had illicit contact with a Second Salemer if she was powdering her nose. She started to sidle behind Queenie, keeping her back to Modesty's face. As she squeezed past, Queenie's whole body stiffened. Her hand flew to Tina's arm and gripped.

"Wait."

 _What?_ wailed Tina silently. _I can't_ be _here!_

"Mayday," breathed Queenie. "We might have an O-word on deck."

*

Graves sank backward, staring at the riot of documents on his desk. He'd exhausted every record in the Archives that made mention of Obscurials, at home or abroad, from the Middle Ages to the present day. Bleak accounts, all of them: oppression, destruction, dead children. He knew enough to know he was in uncharted waters with Credence, but the sea looked icy and black.

Not only in uncharted waters, but out of his depth. He ought to be setting more minds on the problem. Fastest way to do that would be to bring Credence in to MACUSA, but Graves had no illusions about what would happen if he did. Best case scenario, a shielded cell, with R&D poking at him to see what made him tick, why he wasn't dead like all the other sad dead kids. Whether the Obscurus could be made useful, made to serve.

Worst case scenario didn't bear thinking about. In his mind's eye Graves saw Picquery's fist, saw it tighten like a serpent's coils around the threat. 

The accounts made one point clear: attacks on an Obscurus were felt in equal measure by the host. Harm to one meant harm to the other. Graves might've known it wouldn't be a matter of just blasting the thing out of Credence and cauterizing the wound, but thank Merlin he hadn't tried. 

He pushed back his chair. He was getting nowhere, and he could use some air. Besides, he had a letter to deliver.

The chaos of his desk offended him; he put it in order with a slash of his wand. He'd pulled on his jacket and was reaching for his coat when a knock sounded at the door.

"Mr. Abernathy to see you, Mr. Graves, if you're available."

Eyes narrowing, Graves flicked his hand. The office door flew open with a snap. In the hallway Abernathy lurched back a pace, starting. Graves stalked into the hall and let the door swing shut behind.

"Just on my way out," he said.

"Oh, sure," said Abernathy. "I'll walk with you, then--if that's all right."

It's your funeral, Graves didn't say. "Fine." 

They started down the hallway toward the elevator. "I hate to bother you with this, Mr. Graves," said Abernathy, "I know you're a busy man, but--it's about the Goldstein girls." He scurried to keep up with Graves' pace. "First you send Tina down, and that's fine, more than fine, happy to have her. But one day she's here, and the next she's not. When you said six weeks, I figured I'd have her for six weeks. You did say six, didn't you?"

"Good memory," said Graves.

"And now she's off doing this other operation--and not just her, but her sister, too. I don't blame you for wanting to steal Queenie, she's a peach. Pair of peaches, if you get what I mean, whew. But I count on my staff being there when I expect them to be there, you know? Just as much as you do. You wouldn't like it if somebody made off with your Aurors, would you?"

"Can't say as I would."

"Well, that's all I'm saying. Glad we understand each other."

Graves halted at the elevator, so abruptly that Abernathy nearly stumbled past. Shifting on the balls of his feet, he loomed into Abernathy's space.

"Maybe you can understand this," he said. "The Goldsteins are engaged in a mission critical investigation. I hope you can adjust your calendar for the sake of national security. Or do I need to ask the President to run it by you first?"

Abernathy twitched like a snared weasel. "Oh no sir, I wouldn't--I didn't mean--of course I'm happy to help in whatever way--"

Graves watched him squirm for a mollifying minute. The Goldsteins were wasted on this shmuck, both of them. Damned if he'd put Tina into his purview again, even as punishment. And if Queenie didn't care to make a career out of probing unsavory minds, well, maybe Graves could find her some savory ones to peep at. More savory than her current boss's.

"Good man," he said, easing back. "That's what I thought." 

Dismissing Abernathy from his attention, he aimed a finger at the elevator button, which pressed itself. Abernathy straightened his tie and fled.

In the lobby Graves skirted the shadow of the Threat Level monitor, resenting how it tutted, ticking away like a bomb of Damocles over his head. If there was one thing in the building he'd love to see go up in smoke...try as he might, he couldn't get Picquery to dismantle it. They'd argued about fear versus complacency, and the President had won. As she usually did.

He'd nearly reached the exit, and then who should come charging in but Tina Goldstein, all flapping coat and flyaway hair. Her eyes lit on Graves. She flew at him before he could motion her over.

"Sir," she burst out, "we might have something. Someone. It's--"

He drew her to one side, past the silent statues of the Salem memorial, and cast a charm for privacy. Breathless, Tina told him what her sister had glimpsed in Modesty Barebone's mind.

"She had an image of it. The thing that hit the church. Awful, like a whirlwind. The memory was full of fear. And not just that--she has memories of holding a wand. They're recent, Queenie says."

It gave Graves pause. Modesty wasn't the Obscurial, but that didn't mean she wasn't another kettle of fish. It seemed unlikely; if Credence suspected his sister of being a witch, he would've said so. But Graves was done making assumptions about Barebones and magic. 

"A wand," he said. "You're sure?"

Tina nodded. 

"Where is she now?"

"Still eating, when I left--and I swear I didn't initiate contact, I Apparated from the ladies' room as soon as I could--" 

"No, you did well," Graves said. The relief in her face was immediate. "Queenie too. You were right to alert me. I'll have a talk with Modesty myself. If she's the one we're looking for, I'll bring her in." 

Wide-eyed, Tina nodded. She hesitated only briefly, hand straying in the direction of her wand. "You will take backup, won't you, sir? If she's really--I mean. She's just a little girl, but--"

He bit down a sidelong smile. "I don't like to underestimate females, even the pint-sized. I'll be careful. Let her finish her lunch, don't do anything to tip her off. We don't want to spook her."

"Right."

"I'll find her at the church," Graves said.

*

He found Mary Lou Barebone first, overseeing repairs to the roof. The volunteer crew looked motley, but you had to admire their industry: the restoration was nearly complete. Like paper wasps, thought Graves. Knock down a nest, and in no time the little pests would rebuild it. He offered Mary Lou an unobjectionable smile.

"I've read about your work here, ma'am, and I'd like to know more. I may be interested in offering my support. I know you're busy, but could you spare a minute for a few questions? Only a few."

Mary Lou gave him the once-over, taking in his coat and suit. Of course, she said. It was their mission to spread the word. She returned his smile, if charily, with a mouth unused to giving them, and ushered him into the dingy church office. One hand strayed to her hair, to the collar of her dress. 

When she closed the door, Graves locked it with a twist of his wrist. 

At the lock's click, Mary Lou froze.

"You don't know me, Mrs. Barebone, but I'm here on behalf of your son."

Her back had gone rigid. She turned slowly, face immobile, to see Graves drawing his wand.

"You're right about witches," he said. "We do live among you. We're watching you, Mrs. Barebone, all the time. You belong in a jail cell for what you did to Credence. Unfortunately, I can't put you there. Not my jurisdiction."

She flung herself against the door, clawing at the knob. The lock rattled a rusty laugh. Panic subsumed the hateful fear in her eyes. Graves advanced a step toward her, wand raised, and Mary Lou opened her mouth to scream.

 _"Imperio,"_ he said.

The scream died in her mouth. Her face went slack, imperturbable. Her body listed against the door.

Graves didn't need to speak aloud. He held the spell like a chain yanked taut between them, and laid the charge directly on her mind. 

_You will not strike children. You will not burn them, starve them, or otherwise willfully do them harm. You will forgive them their trespasses. If your daughter wants to attend school, you'll send her to school. If she wants to leave the church, you'll let her go. Repeat all this to show me you understand._

"I will not strike children," said Mary Lou, dreamily. She recited the rest as if it were a Bible verse, and she the best pupil in class.

"Good," said Graves. "Better." He thought of adding _be kind,_ but if there was a curse to evoke loving kindness in a heart that held none, Graves didn't know it. They'd have to make do with negative injunctions.

His grip on the wand held steady. He remembered Credence shuddering in pain. The flames of another Unforgivable licked at his intent. He was authorized to use it, like the Imperius, for apprehending criminals. No one would discover it if he used it here, or question him if they did. He could picture Mary Lou collapsing, writhing, thin legs thrashing in involuntary kicks. He could cast _Silencio_ first, to smother the screams. 

For a time he studied her false placidity, her hands held comfortably at her sides. 

He thought of Credence in his kitchen, pleading: you, you can control the darkness?

With practice, he'd said.

He let Mary Lou's repellent mind out from under his thumb, leaving only the geas behind. The look in her eyes went from vapid to wild in the space of a breath. Her face contorted. She scrambled away from him, teeth bared, readying a shriek.

 _"Obliviate,"_ Graves said.

*

He dusted his sleeves as he left the church, and went in search of the sisters.

There was no luring Chastity from the main thoroughfare; she knew better than to go traipsing into alleys with strange men. Graves wiped her memories on the corner of Pike Street, in front of God and everybody. He saved Modesty, who was more easily led, for last.

"I've got something for you," he told her. "From your brother."

Shock disarmed her, and carried hope on its heels. "From Credence?"

Graves beckoned her to the alley nearest the church. Modesty trailed him, keeping a wary distance, until he crouched down to her level and drew the envelope from his coat. When he displayed the handwriting on its front, her eyes flew wide. 

As she started forward, he flipped it out of her reach. 

"First I'm going to need some information. Whatever you tell me, it stays between us. I won't rat you out to your Ma, I promise." Graves lowered the envelope. He put on his best all-knowing look. "Miss Barebone, have you been using a magic wand?"

She stared at him, resentful of the question, then scowled. "It's a game," she said. "One of us pretends to be a witch. The rest of us try and catch 'em. Then we burn 'em at the stake. Or drown 'em, sometimes."

Charming, thought Graves. Who didn't love kids? "So you haven't, say, used it to cast diabolical spells. Or summon infernal beasts."

"No," said Modesty, in a tone that suggested Graves was very dense. "It's a _toy."_

The Sneakoscope in Graves' pocket stayed mum, confirming his instinct: she wasn't lying, as far as she knew. "That's what I figured. Here, I'll trade you." He held out the envelope with her name on it, pointing at her wad of leaflets as he did. "I'll take the stack."

Modesty eyed him, but accepted the envelope. She stuffed the leaflets under her elbow instead of giving them to Graves, then took off her gloves. Her hands were chafed with cold, otherwise unscathed. 

She tore into the envelope, opened the note, and read.

*

_Dear Modesty,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I'm sorry I scared you with what happened that night, and sorry if I worried you by disappearing. Everything that happened was my fault._

_Ma was right about me. I wanted to keep you safe, but I can't do that by staying with you anymore. So I won't be coming back._

_For now I'm staying with the man who's bringing you this letter. He's trying to help me learn to be what I am. I know what Ma would say, and God, but Mr. Graves has only been kind to me. I'm not afraid of the fire in the end._

_Mr. Graves says he's going to make Ma forget me. Chastity too. When he's done, they won't remember me at all. I think it might be easier that way, if it's like I never existed. He says he can make you forget, too, if you want, but it's up to you to decide._

_If you decide to remember, I'll write to you again, if that's all right. I miss you._

_Love,  
Credence_


	6. Shield Charm

When Mr. Graves brought Modesty's reply, scrawled on the back of the envelope--

_Please write soon_

\--the words blurred in front of Credence. He sat down hard on the claw-footed sofa, clutching the envelope with both hands. Mr. Graves laid a hand on his shoulder, then retreated to let him be for a while, until the blurring stopped. 

Credence hadn't known how tightly dread and hope had wound him, not until he was sprung with relief. Exhaustion followed. He took himself to bed early after dinner, leaving Mr. Graves to frown alone over his newspaper and glass of Scotch. 

In the night he dreamed. In the dream he was back at the church, in his unforgiving cot, clutching his blistered hand. The burns continued to darken, spreading over his wrist and fingers, blackening to char. His charred fingers lengthened into claws. The claws extended, growing gruesome in size, and the blackened skin began to smoke. 

Reams of smoke rippled outward, at first with unctuous slowness--and then like blood from a punctured artery they suddenly gushed. Something ferocious snarled and roiled, around Credence and within him. The clawed hand lunged. It ripped into the ceiling, bursting through to winter night. 

Someone was screaming. 

Shards rained down, jagged fangs of wood and wind. They bypassed Credence, leaving him untouched, to fall on his sisters in their beds.

*

Alarms wailed in Graves' skull. He heaved upright, mind muddy with sleep, groping for the source of the howling. Not the Threat Level alarm on his nightstand--the house wards--no. The newest wards, the ones on Credence's room.

He flung on a dressing gown and dashed for the hall, wand in hand, blasting lights on as he went. He reached Credence's door and gripped the knob. From within came the muffled _crack_ of snapping wood.

"Credence? It's me, I'm coming in."

He opened the door. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

In the center of the room hung a suspended mass of writhing darkness. It was tangled, tortuous, as if some dreadful hand had tried to twist reams of living smoke into a skein. Flickers gouted through it like jags of lightning through the guts of a thunderhead. Among the flickers floated other things: a mangled lampshade, torn sheets of paper, the smashed remains of the chair. 

The depths of the dark roil covered the bed. Graves couldn't see Credence at all. 

Fingers of murk shot toward him, aiming for the open door.

Graves slammed the door behind him and parried with his wand. _"Protego Maxima!"_

The shield flared into being. It poured over the walls of the room, lambent silver, firming to a bright shell that contained Graves, the Obscurus, the shrouded bed.

The Obscurus billowed, a rising wave, and crashed against the shield. The barrier quivered, but held. Graves saw Credence, then, sitting rigid on the bed. His eyes were open, blank and sightless, stark white. 

"Credence!" Graves started toward him. "If you can hear me, I need you to --"

A dark coil seized Graves by the waist and slammed him against the wall. 

It knocked the wind from him. Pain lanced from the blow to his head. He sank to the floor, snarling, teeth bared. 

The Obscurus released him to spew inky darkness and hurl itself furiously at the ceiling, the walls and the door. The wardrobe exploded into shrapnel. Graves' silver shield quavered. He couldn't get the breath to speak, to hiss _Fianto Duri,_ could only lift his wand and try to wordlessly brace the spell.

It wasn't enough. The glaze of silver cracked, then shattered like a pane of glass. The Obscurus surged against the breakage--

\--only to smash against another spell that shimmered into being beyond it, a sleek, unruffled layer of translucent gold.

 _Tibby,_ thought Graves dazedly, _bless_ her, bless her meddling elfin heart. The Obscurus seethed and battered, but the golden shield never flinched, only gave a testy flash at each attempt to breach it, as if to glare: _not in this house, you don't!_ Then Graves was on his feet again, lunging for the bed. He grabbed for Credence's shoulder. 

"Credence, wake up. I'm here, you're safe. I need you to wake up."

The blank stare stuttered from white to dark. Credence blinked. He saw the Obscurus, the room, the shield. He gulped a shuddering breath and pitched forward, bending double, clutching at Graves' arm.

A low moan rose from him. "No, no, no, no--"

"It's all right. You're all right." Graves grasped at his shoulders, holding firm. "Nothing's going to hurt you here. I've got you."

A coil of darkness lashed around Graves' shin, as if to yank him from the bed.

 _"No,"_ spat Credence, suddenly fierce. _"Stop_ it. That's enough."

Whether he spoke to the Obscurus or himself, Graves wasn't sure, but the dark mass contracted, drawing back with the speed of a pulled cord. In a nauseating whorl it began to drain and vanish into Credence, returning to his body, like cigar smoke sucked back into the mouth that had spewed it out.

Credence shuddered, then went still.

When the Obscurus had vanished altogether, the room was pitch dark. The lamps were broken. Graves cast a small, soft light to float above their heads.

Credence stared in despair at the wreck of the room. He still clung to Graves, breathing raggedly. Graves leaned at his side, half on and half off the bed. He rubbed Credence's back slowly, trying to soothe.

Only the bed was intact. The other furniture and its contents lay in splinters, shredded. Ghastly rake marks scathed the walls and the door. 

It was nothing _Reparo_ couldn't cure. Graves released a long breath, letting his shoulders sag. The rushing of his pulse began to ease. His head throbbed. He let go of Credence long enough to point his wand at the back of his head, and cast a healing spell until his brainpan quit ringing. 

Credence saw him do it, and his wan face went bloodless. He unhanded Graves. He spoke in a whisper. 

"Did it hurt you?"

"We had a tiff," said Graves calmly, lowering his wand. "I think it went easy on me." He had a hunch that if the Obscurus had wanted him dead, he wouldn't still be in one piece. But his shield would've held, he thought, if he'd had a chance to reinforce it. Would've, could've, should've--he didn't tolerate excuses like that from his Aurors, not if they were lucky enough to live to make them. At least Credence hadn't been awake to see him get tossed into the wall. 

Credence's voice cracked. "Mr. Graves, I'm sorry--"

"None of that, now. Not your fault."

Credence clamped his lips together, shaking his head. His hands wrung the snarled bedclothes, white-knuckled. "And all your things--"

"What, the furniture? Small potatoes. I'll fix it in the morning when I've had my coffee. Right now I'd probably splice the chair legs to the desk." Graves slid from the bed. Shrugging out of his dressing gown, he draped it around Credence's shoulders. He cleared a path through the debris on the floor with a wave of his hand. "You want some tea? Let's have some tea. Come on."

Credence followed him dully into the hall. On the way past his bedroom Graves summoned another dressing gown for himself and belted it on. In the kitchen he brewed tea for both of them, then went to root in his potions cabinet for a particular bottle and glass.

He brought the purple bottle to Credence. "Potion for Dreamless Sleep," he said, pulling up one of the kitchen chairs. "I'll level with you--I hate the stuff. Makes my head feel like it's crammed full of cotton the next day. But it works. No dreams." He set the bottle in front of Credence. "Up to you if you want to use it."

Credence reached slowly for the bottle. "You've taken it?"

"Now and then." When he'd come back from the war, and after a few especially nasty cases. "I try not to make it a habit."

After a hesitation, Credence poured a snifter of the potion and drank it in one gulp, grimacing at the taste. His eyelids began to droop almost as soon as he'd swallowed. Graves put the bottle away. He fetched a blanket, then came back to the kitchen to find Credence wilting over the tea.

Graves shepherded him to the sofa in the living room, where Credence lay down and burrowed under the blanket as if it too were a magical shield. "You all right to sleep out here?"

A nod.

Graves lingered. "I never cared to talk about bad dreams, myself." In his experience, talking about them was overrated. "But I'll listen, if you want to tell me."

Shutting his eyes, Credence shook his head. His hands balled a wad of blanket under his chin.

"All right. If you change your mind, the offer stands. We'll get your room fixed up tomorrow. Get some rest."

As he stepped away, he heard a faint exhalation. Then, slurred on the edge of sleep: "Good night, Mr. Graves."

*

Mr. Graves was right about the potion. By the time Credence woke, dry-mouthed and foggy, morning light was beaming through the living room windows. He squinted against the cushion, baffled to find himself on the sofa. On the sofa, and disheveled in a dressing gown--grey paisley, with a black collar of quilted velvet--that smelled confusingly of Mr. Graves. 

Quiet sounds carried from the kitchen: Mr. Graves making toast. The jam jar being opened, the scritch of a knife on crisp, warm bread. They were good sounds, comforting. 

Then memory came. Credence shot upright. He slunk down the hall to his room, only to stare dumbfounded at its pristine condition: desk, chair, lamps and wardrobe all intact. As if the awful night had never happened. 

The fog in his head persisted, but he could accept that Mr. Graves had worked miracles--or the witchcraft equivalent--while he slept. He crept to the bathroom and tried to make himself less slovenly, then shuffled back to the living room. He found Mr. Graves standing with his coffee by the tall windows, considering the clearness of the day. 

Before Credence could open his mouth to apologize, Mr. Graves said _morning,_ mild as anything, and asked if Credence wouldn't like to go out.

Credence stared. "Out?"

"I'm off today, in theory. Deputy director's holding down the fort. What do you say?" 

Hunching, Credence said, "Should I be going out? After..." he trailed off. He glanced unhappily down the hall.

"I doubt Mr. Murky'll show his face again so soon. Wouldn't fit the pattern. Anyway, we have a better notion of how to handle him now." Mr. Graves studied Credence over the rim of his mug. "You must be tired of being cooped up in here. No?"

Credence sat down on the sofa. He folded the blanket to cover his bewilderment. "Where would we go?" 

"Where would you want to go? If you could go anywhere."

Credence blinked. He stole a glance at Mr. Graves, furtive, trying to discern if there was an answer he ought to give. 

Mr. Graves' mouth twisted. He hadn't yet shaved; iron-grey stubble peppered his cheeks and jaw, darkest around his mouth and chin. It must feel bristly to the touch, thought Credence, with dazed distraction, as Mr. Graves ambled past him to the kitchen. The dressing gown he wore was handsome black, trimmed in red. It was disconcerting to see him in something other than a suit.

"It's not a trick question. You don't have to go anywhere if you don't want. Or if you want me to pick, I'll pick." Mr. Graves poured himself a refill of coffee. He brought Credence a cup of hot tea, then went to settle in his chair. "Don't tell me you never daydreamed about being somewhere else while you were handing out those leaflets."

Credence flushed and looked down at the tea. If Mr. Graves wanted him to confess to idleness of the mind, he could do it. 

"Central Park?" he managed. "To see the animals."

Mr. Graves blinked. "What, the zoo?"

He seemed only surprised, not displeased. Credence wrapped his hands around the teacup, clutching its contained heat, and forged on. "I always wanted to go. Ma never let us. She said it was frivolity." He drew a fortifying breath. "I don't think it's frivolous to, to admire God's creatures. Not when we're meant to be stewards of His creation."

His pulse beat hard in his ears, under his skin. He felt dizzied at his own temerity, but he could tell by the approval in Mr. Graves' eyes that he'd gotten something right, after all, if only in blurting what he thought.

"It's not frivolous," said Mr. Graves. "The zoo can be a little dreary, though. All those cages." He leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee, ruminating. Then a slow glint lit his eye. "How about someplace better than a park?"

*

Graves Apparated them in stages, first to the village of Cornwall-on-Hudson, then into the hills from there. He hadn't made this particular jump, let alone brought someone with him, for a long time. 

Before they left he'd given Credence a handful of ginger candy. "Helps with the queasiness," he said.

Credence unwrapped a ginger chew and tentatively put it in his mouth. "It doesn't make you ill? To Apparate."

"Not anymore. But I've been doing it for years."

Credence was still chewing when they landed on the rock ledge on Copperhead Hill, above Hemlock Pond. He clutched at Graves' arm, and had to drag deep breaths through his nose, but didn't stagger or sick up. At last he raised his head and stared.

The forest spread all around them. Mountain laurels encircled the stone ledge, fanning smooth evergreen leaves below the canopy of oaks. Downslope, the oak groves continued, interspersed here and there with maple and hemlock and birch, until they broke around the shining pond like waves on a shore. From there the hills rolled onward, pitching up to the peaks of Mt. Misery and Black Rock.

Most of the fall color was gone, lost to November, rusted away to dim browns. A few maples held out with straggles of flame. Even in late-autumn sobriety, the hillsides made a scene against the sky, mirrored in the stillness of the pond. There was little wind. Somewhere among the trees a nuthatch called and was answered.

For a minute Graves was sure he'd overshot: Credence stood rooted, as if he'd never seen so much open space in his life, and the gape of the sky had overwhelmed him. Then his stunned look shifted to exhilaration, and he crept forward on the rock ledge. 

When he spoke, he was breathless. "Where are we?" 

"Black Rock Forest. Up the Hudson. The river's that way." Graves nodded eastward. "If we go up to the peak, you'll be able to see it. The boundary of my family's land is--" he pointed "--just over there."

Credence nearly lost his footing. He turned to Graves. "Your family _owns_ this place?"

"A piece of it."

The air was bracing. Graves had worn his mackinaw lined with sheepskin, and for Credence had redone the spellwork on another of his old coats: dark gray wool, too bulky in the shoulders even after magical finagling, but warm enough. It crossed his mind that both Barebone sisters had been wearing coats each time he'd seen them--coats, hats, and gloves--while Credence had come to him with none. He resisted the urge to double the Warming Charm.

"Down to the pond?" he asked, and took Credence by the arm again at his nod.

They Apparated to a sheltered stretch along the shore. The pond's edge was rocky in places, muddy in others, clotted with fallen leaves. Its clean, dank smell softened the air. For a while they meandered along the bank, weaving through the stands of birches. Credence walked slowly, pausing often to pick up a leaf that caught his eye, or to touch the mottled bark of a tree. When they came across a massive fallen log, they settled there to eat their packed lunch. 

A pair of wood ducks slipped across the water in the distance. Credence sat up to rest his gaze on their smooth, unhurried motion. Finishing his sandwich, Graves rose and picked his way to the water's edge. He scanned among the fallen brush and twigs. When he found a likely birch branch, he dragged it to a flat stretch of bank, then drew his wand.

"Been a while since I did this," he told Credence, "so no laughing if it comes out cockeyed."

At once Credence grew attentive. Graves aimed his wand at the branch, and held in his mind the image of what he wanted it to be. 

_Muxul,_ he thought.

The spell was from the Lenape, though the local tribe didn't use it on birch, preferring tulip tree or oak. The Graves' nearest neighbors at Black Rock were Lenape families, descendants of those whose elder witches had indulged a foreign wizard when Great-Great-Grandpa Graves set out to build a house among the hills. They'd made expert co-conspirators in thwarting No-Maj incursion for two centuries and more.

The branch began to transform. Birchbark crackled as it lengthened, spreading, hollowing from the top, until the branch was no longer a branch at all.

The canoe sat straddling the bank, rough-hewn but sturdy, bow pointing toward the far shore. Graves cast a few charms on it for good measure, to make sure it was pondworthy. He turned to Credence, who was looking on in astonishment.

"Transfiguration," Graves said. He summoned a smaller branch into his hand. With another wave of his wand he spun it into a paddle. "Useful stuff. You haven't seen me do much of it, I guess."

Bright-eyed, Credence shook his head.

"Well." Graves stood back. The water lapped at the heels of his boots. "Ever been in a canoe?"

Credence shook his head again. He was already scrambling up from the log, hopping toward the water's edge.

Graves steadied the canoe as Credence climbed in, gingerly, and inched toward the bow seat. "Don't worry," he said, when Credence froze at a wobble. "It's practically untippable." 

He climbed in after Credence, onto the seat at the stern, then turned to the bank, extending his open hand. He made a pushing gesture, and a swell of magic launched them from shore.

Momentum sped them across the water in an easy glide. They were well out from shore before Graves began to idly paddle. Credence perched in the bow seat, palms on the gunwale, peering down into the water. 

"Are there fish?" he asked.

"Sure."

"Have you fished here?"

"When I was a kid. Summers, mostly. Not for a long time." Graves paused in his paddling to glance over the side. "Used to be a Grampus down there. A kind of overgrown magic catfish. Don't know if it's still around."

"How is it magic?"

"If you catch it, it casts a Dubiety Jinx, so no one'll believe you did."

Credence leaned back in the bow seat. He lifted his head, gazing toward the far shore and its line of trees. 

"Would've been prettier a few weeks ago," said Graves. "Too bad we don't have a Time-Turner."

"A few weeks ago I didn't know you," said Credence.

"That's true." Next year, Graves nearly added. It was on the tip of his tongue to say it. He stopped himself, and the bottom fell out of his stomach, landing somewhere in the muddy belly of the canoe. He almost dropped his paddle into the drink.

He managed instead to keep hold of it, and sat dumbly with the paddle flat across his lap, letting the boat drift. Credence was peering over the side again, keeping an eye out for the Grampus, maybe. The bright alertness in his face, the open sweetness, made something flop in Graves' chest like a gasping fish. 

What are you playing at, old man, he asked himself. Losing your marbles? 

He thrust the paddle into the water and labored with it, forgoing magic, to turn the canoe around.

The pair of wood ducks resumed their floating circuit in the distance. "My father used to drag us up here to duck hunt," Graves said, to occupy himself with past foolishness instead of present. "No-Maj style. Guns, dogs, the whole shebang. Suppose it was his way of--what'd you call it? Admiring creation. Funny way to go about it, if you ask me. Never saw the thrill." Muscle memory of the rhythm returned to him as he paddled, working his arms. The exertion was soothing. "Hunting criminals, now, there's a lark." 

"You had dogs?" 

"Spaniels. When I was young."

Credence looked back at Graves over his shoulder. His chin brushed the shawl collar of the old mackinaw coat. Graves' coat. Graves paddled with determined rigor. "You say that as if you're old."

"Older than you," Graves grunted. Old enough to know better. 

"You're not going to say how old?"

"What d'you want to know for? I turned forty this year."

"One of the books you gave me said wizards live longer than ordinary people."

"On average. Quite a bit."

"So forty isn't really very old. For a wizard."

Graves scraped up a dry laugh. Landing the canoe, he climbed out and hauled it onto shore. He gave Credence a hand to help him out, then turned from the pond and gestured to the woods.

"There's a trail, sort of. Up to the lookout point. If you hike up you feel more like you've earned it."

They started upslope. Graves moved on instinct, tracing the barest boyhood memory of a path. He had a fifty-fifty shot of getting them lost, but he could Apparate them to the top if need be; the image of the peak, at least, shone clear in his mind. 

Halfway up the dubious trail they flushed a flock of wild turkeys. The birds puttered curt alarm calls, scattering for cover. Credence halted in his tracks, and a startled sound escaped him. Graves was slow to recognize it for a laugh. When he did, regret kicked through him; he wished with a pang that he could hear it again. 

The turkeys hustled on about their business. Credence gazed after them, pressing his lips together. "Are they magic?"

"Nah. Regular turkeys."

"Don't turkeys have..." Credence spread both hands. "The tails?"

"The big-tailed boys are toms. What we just saw were hens."

"They're so funny-looking," murmured Credence, and hallelujah, that was a smile on his face, small but real. Graves didn't repeat his mistake with the laugh: he made sure to get an eyeful, and oh, he was in trouble. A whole mess of it. 

Trouble or no, he couldn't see any harm in giving Credence reason to smile. Not as long as Graves kept the mess to himself.

"Here's your No-Maj history for the day," he said. "Benjamin Franklin preferred the turkey for our national bird. Said the bald eagle had bad moral character."

The smile persisted, even as Credence lowered his eyes to mind his footing. "Do wizards use an eagle, too? For a symbol."

"We do. When the President wants me in her office, she sends a paper one." Graves didn't think much of their character, either. "Wouldn't mind a turkey instead." There was an idea: next time she sent an eagle, maybe he'd send it back with alterations. Gobble gobble, Seraphina. Pity he hadn't thought of it before Thanksgiving. 

"Will you show me?" asked Credence. "When we go back to the house. A paper eagle."

"An eagle, a turkey, and I'll do you one better," said Graves. He might've been smiling, too, helpless to do otherwise. "Paper Wampus."

*

In the end he did lose the trail among the trees, and had to Apparate them up the final stretch. They reappeared on the stony height of Black Rock. On the bare peak, above the crown of pines, the wind whipped at them and pummeled Credence's hair. 

Credence crossed the sloping rock face, stepping so close to its sheer edge that Graves bit down the urge to call him back. He stared out across the gulfs of untrammeled air, toward the Hudson. The river laid a silver path into the distance, blurring at the horizon into pale haze. 

After a moment he sat down on the bare rock. He drew his legs up toward his chest and wrapped his arms around his knees.

Graves sat down at his side. The wind whistled between them. When Credence spoke, it was almost too softly to hear.

"You said no Obscurial has ever lived as long as me."

"Far as we know," said Graves cautiously. "You're the oldest on record."

Credence was silent for a time. 

"Mr. Graves," he said at last, "what's going to happen to me?"

Unease lurched sideways in Graves' chest. "What do you mean?"

Credence fixed his eyes on the horizon. He spoke quietly, with every appearance of calm. "Maybe I can learn to control it while I'm awake. To keep it from coming out. But I can't when I'm asleep. It's destroyed entire buildings without my knowing it. I can't make a shield like you can, to hold it in. I can't do any real spells at all." His hand moved: a little stillborn motion. "How can I be a wizard when I'm like this?"

"We'll figure it out," said Graves, low. "I told you I'd help you and I meant it."

Credence looked at him gently, without reproach, as if between the two of them Graves were the innocent who had yet to learn the harsh truths of the world. His eyes said: what if we can't?

Graves set his jaw. He turned his face away from Credence, into the wind. 

"This is a big country," he said, grasping for the words as he spoke them. "There are places you could go where you wouldn't see another soul for miles." No witnesses, no one to get hurt, even if the damned thing did get loose. If someone, wizard or No-Maj, got a look at the damage, they'd think a tornado had hit. 

The President wouldn't approve, but the President didn't need to know. As long as the threat was gone, out of New York, away from people--as long as the disturbances ended, disappearing from the public eye--what did it matter? Unsolved or not, Graves could call the case closed and wash his hands.

"Places like this?" Credence peered out across the hills.

"Like this, or further west." Big sky country. Colorado, Montana. Graves had always meant to go there, see the Rockies. Seemed like there was never time.

"Could I live somewhere like that?" wondered Credence. "By myself?" The bleakness of the prospect clenched Graves' chest, wringing the breath from him, but it seemed to comfort Credence, if only for a time. "I still don't have any money."

"Don't worry about the money," Graves said roughly.

Credence said nothing. Then, in a voice gone small: "Would I still be able to see you?"

It was like getting pitched into the wall all over again. All the breath in him, gone in a flash. Graves fought to speak around the lump in his throat, which seemed to consist of his heart.

"A hundred miles is nothing when you can Apparate," he got out, sounding smoother than he felt by far. "I'd come and see you." 

Credence bowed his head and hugged his own knees harder. 

It was unbearable to watch. "Oh, Credence," muttered Graves. "C'mere."

He opened his arm. For a minute Credence sat frozen. Then slowly, timorously, he shifted sideways and folded himself against Graves, into the crook of his embrace. When Graves laid a hand on the nape of his neck and tucked him carefully closer, a tiny sound escaped him. First one, then another, and then the hitches of breath came rapid fire. His shoulders were shaking. He hid his face in the sheepskin collar of Graves' coat.

Graves stroked the dark hair lightly with his hand. "That's it," he murmured. "Let it out, now. I've got you."

Credence choked against his shoulder. "I'm sorry--"

Graves wasn't much for praying, never had been. He didn't figure anyone upstairs was listening, and the problems on his docket were his own to clear. But at the moment he could understand the need. Spells churned in his head in circles, exhortations straining for an outlet, with the fierce and frantic cadences of prayer. _Protego Maxima, Fianto Duri. Repello Inimicum. Fianto Duri--that which has been made, let it last, let it last--_

"Nothing to apologize for," he rasped. "Not a thing."

*

Mr. Graves brought them back to the city. For an hour he disappeared into his study, then reemerged to tell Credence he had to run in to work. There were cold cuts in the icebox, he said from the hallway, changing his tie, if Credence could stand a sandwich again for dinner.

Credence could. He watched Mr. Graves transform from the version of himself who had walked in the woods to the Mr. Graves of MACUSA--another transfiguration--and watched him go. For a while he sat in the forlorn silence of absence, listening to the clock tick.

Then he went to the desk in his room for pen and paper. He could write to Modesty; he could tell her about the day. As soon as the thought occurred to him, the words brimmed up like rising water. 

_We went to a forest. There were wild turkeys. I rode in a canoe on a silver lake. The lake wasn't magic, but the canoe was. Maybe it was all magic. I didn't know there was that much beauty in the world. I hope one day you can see it, too. Even if I can't show you._

*

The next morning an Express Mail courier left MACUSA, bound for England with a letter for Theseus Scamander, post haste. As the courier departed by Portkey, a White Star liner was cruising into New York Harbor, preparing to divulge her passengers from across the sea.


	7. Severing Charm

The ambassador to the International Confederation of Wizards, Ossifer Peele, was still yammering. Narrow and gouty, he craned over the conference table like a stork of ill omen. In his mind, at least, the time for a soft approach with Picquery was over.

"Thus far we've been spared a direct attack. For the sake of our allies, we must send a team of Aurors--"

"And have them end up like the last one?" said Graves. "No thanks."

The thin rims of Peele's glasses flashed. "I wouldn't have expected you, of all people, to shy from the prospect of danger, Director."

Graves stilled. He leaned one elbow on the table and looked Peele straight in the eye. 

"Calling me a coward?" 

Peele paused. He made a hemming noise in his craw. Before he could croak some vacuous retraction, Graves continued. 

"If the President gives me the word, I'm there. But if I'm going after Grindelwald, I do it my way, with my people. Not some cobbled-up pack of Frogs and Krauts who'll be throwing curses at each other's heads before they land one on the target--"

"How dare you, sir--"

"Enough." Picquery's stare expressed how much she'd like to send both of them to their rooms, and no pie for dessert, either. To Peele she said, "My Director of Security is not replaceable at this time."

"No one is demanding the services of Mr. Graves, in particular. All I ask is a show of solidarity in the fight against--"

He broke off, staring in affront towards the door. 

Graves craned his neck, only to do a double take at the sight of Tina Goldstein swanning into the conference space with a loopy-eyed redhead in tow. With his bowtie and battered suitcase, the redhead looked fresh off the boat.

"Is this not a secure facility?" sniffed Peele.

Graves opened his mouth, but the President beat him to it.

"Miss Goldstein. What are you doing here?"

"I--" She looked hopefully at Graves. "There's been a minor incident--"

"Then refer it to the minor incidents department," Picquery said.

The President proceeded to ream Tina out of the room. When Tina cast a final woeful look at Graves, he withheld a wince and gave a faint shake of his head. Maybe he'd been guilty of favoritism lately, but even so, she should've known better than this. 

After the conference Graves descended to the dusty bowels of Wand Permits. Tina was there, getting an earful from Abernathy while the redhead waited awkwardly to one side. 

On closer inspection the redhead was a bit of a looker. Lanky, good angles. Graves might've considered giving him the time of day if the hands of his own clock weren't pointed squarely elsewhere. Straight at nope o'clock. 

Seeing Graves, Tina lunged as if for a lifeboat. "Mr. Graves, sir, this man has a crazy creature in his case and it got out and caused mayhem at a bank, sir."

Graves raised his eyebrows. He shouldn't humor her, not after the debacle upstairs. But Abernathy was hovering, weasel-faced, waiting for Graves to deliver the coup de grace.

"Let's see the little guy," Graves said.

The redhead blanched. Tina set the suitcase on the table and flung it open with a snap.

They all stared at the collection of pastries within.

Graves turned to Tina, eyebrows still raised.

"I don't understand," she whispered. Abernathy was squinting. The redhead was staring into the case with naked horror. Graves supposed some of his fancy doughnuts had gotten squashed. "Mr. Graves," said Tina, "there was a creature, I saw it, I swear--"

"Tina." He drew her aside. He spoke low. "Even if there was, it's gone now. And you're not authorized to detain people. We can't hold him." 

She nodded miserably. He gave her a pat on the shoulder, then nodded to the redhead on his way out. "Looks tasty," he said, tipping his chin at the case. "Sorry about the fuss."

*

He spent the rest of the day caged in meetings. There was barely time to snatch a sandwich from the cafeteria to inhale at his desk, let alone Apparate home. He thought with dim longing of the picnic with Credence by Hemlock Pond. The memory felt like a fond hallucination.

For the last two nights Credence had taken Dreamless Sleep potion, and slept past the hour in the morning when Graves left. In the evenings he'd been worryingly withdrawn, even for him. As memos scuttled into the office on mouse feet, Graves remembered his promise of a paper eagle, and frowned at himself for having forgotten. In his head he could hear Tibby clucking: _given to distraction._ He ground his teeth and went to meet with the investigations team.

After the ritual berating of Aurors he found an Express Mail envelope in his inbox, fluttering above the rest of the pile on tiny urgent wings. He tore into it and read.

_My dear Percy,_

_Lovely to hear from you, or should I say about bloody time. My only assurance that you hadn't fallen to a stray curse from some goblin bootlegger has been the absence of an obituary in the papers._

_Penelope and Meg are very well, thank you for asking. Penny has become hopelessly embroiled in Mum's hippogriff breeding schemes, in spite of her best efforts, and all of us are counting the days until Meg's Hogwarts letter arrives (only 948 to go...give or take)._

_It's funny you should ask about my little brother, since as it happens, I believe he's on his way to your 'neck of the woods.' I'm afraid I don't have his travel dates, so can't tell you precisely when he'll arrive. Not the easiest fellow to keep track of, is Newt._

_I wish you the best of luck in getting hold of him, and hope he can advise you on your beastly problem. If you can also avoid having to arrest him, I'd consider it a special favor. He doesn't mean any harm--he means the opposite--but I'll be the first to admit his risk assessment skills leave something to be desired._

_Your friend, as ever,_

_Theseus_

_p.s. I enclose a photograph to aid in your search, for use in "WANTED" posters, etc.  
_

Graves picked up the photo. The man in the picture was Goldstein's redhead, goofy bowtie and all.

Graves swore. He smacked the letter down on his desk and reached for his coat.

He Apparated first to the soup kitchen, only to find Queenie alone at the helm.

"She was here earlier, Mr. Graves. She took off at lunch, said she was going to get a hot dog. Hasn't come back." Queenie hesitated. She was too polite to peep at the closed gates of his mind. "Is Tina in trouble?"

"No trouble. I need to talk to a man she brought in, that's all. Tell her I was looking if you see her."

"Sure."

He stalked back to Woolworth, trying not to champ at the bit. When quitting time rolled around--quitting time for regular mortals--he checked again at Wand Permits. No Tina. Abernathy was clocking out, but lingered to snivel at Graves that she'd been gone all afternoon, ever since running off with Mr. Pastry Suitcase.

It wasn't like her to go AWOL. Graves sent a pigeon with a note ordering her to report. _Message me at home,_ he wrote, enclosing his personal address. _And burn this after reading._

On the way home he picked up dinner, with a trip to Brentano's on the side. A No-Maj clerk helped him track down what he was after. Pacing among the bookshelves, Graves weighed the risks of bringing Credence to a place like this. He'd been leery of taking him out in the city, but maybe if they were careful. Odds were Mary Lou had never given him any book but one, and still he'd turned out to be a hungry reader. Graves could imagine his response at being let loose in a shop full of books that weren't Bibles. You wouldn't think sheer joy would set off the Obscurus, but Credence might burst at the seams all the same.

Graves gave him a copy of the _Bird Guide _by Chester Reed after dinner. "Thought you might want a break from wizardry," he said.__

____

____

Credence opened the book, then huffed his tiny voiceless laugh.

"The illustrations," he explained, tilting them for Graves to see. A bobolink perched motionless on the page, vivid in black and yellow. "It's strange to see pictures that aren't moving." He paused. "I guess I've gotten used to it." 

He curled up in his spot on the sofa--there was a _his spot_ now, observed Graves--to leaf through the guide. Graves sat in his fireside chair, feeling tenderly bruised in the pit of his chest.

"There are so many species," Credence said. 

"You wouldn't see all those in New York. That's every bird east of the Rockies."

"Are they different in the west?"

"So I've read. Never been there." 

Graves summoned a sheet of paper from his study. He waited until Credence was absorbed in the book, then flicked his wand. The spell folded the paper soundlessly into a stern-faced bird of prey. He sent the eagle winging over Credence to circle above his head. Credence startled and ducked, then blinked upward, smiling. He raised his arm to offer a landing pad.

"You remembered," he said.

The eagle alighted on his wrist. No sooner had it settled and begun to preen than Graves flicked his wand again. The eagle re-folded into a disgruntled turkey. Credence laughed at the look on its face. The turkey bobbed its wattled head, then transformed into a Wampus cat that sprang from Credence's arm to his shoulder. It crouched there like a contented gargoyle, rubbing its jaw on the side of his cheek.

Graves heard a tapping at the window, just before the house wards chimed. He crossed the room to find a genuine bird, a pigeon from Tina, strutting on the sill.

"About time," he muttered, opening the note.

_My apologies for the late reply, sir. I know where Mr. Scamander's staying. I'd be glad to arrange to bring him in tomorrow to consult. Thank you for giving me another chance._

"Knows where he's staying, she says." Graves shook his head as he wrote his reply. He wouldn't have pegged Tina as the type, but why shouldn't she be? Scamanders were a rare breed. A good wizard was hard to find. No point shilly-shallying when you got one in your sights. In any case, it was a load off his mind. The lost was found, tomorrow he'd talk to a real magizoologist, and maybe they'd make some headway about Mr. Murky. At last.

He sent the pigeon off, and turned from the window to see Credence sitting with the paper Wampus in his lap. The Wampus sprawled, purring blatant satisfaction, as Credence scratched its paper chin. Its paper eyes thinned smugly at Graves.

Graves went to pour himself a drink.

*

When morning came, and with it reports that a Niffler had robbed a jewelry store and an Erumpent had run roughshod through Central Park, two things dawned on Graves: that Theseus hadn't been kidding, and Tina Goldstein had been dead on the nose.

*

The bare lights of the interrogation room glared. Tina tried to stay quiet where she stood behind Scamander. She'd been in this room before, on the other side of the table, next to a senior investigative lead. Her position now was more precarious. 

"When I asked you to come by my office today," said Mr. Graves, in conversational tones, "this wasn't what I had in mind."

He propped his elbows on the table, fingers laced, studying the man in front of him. The incriminating suitcase sat on a chair at his side. 

"You're an interesting man, Mr. Scamander. You claim the creatures in your possession aren't dangerous. I wonder what you can tell me about this."

Without using his wand or touching the case, Mr. Graves opened it. What rose from it at his summons wasn't anything Tina would've called a creature, at least not outside of childhood bad dreams. The dark mass swirled within a transparent field, like a stormcloud caught in a watery globe. Something about it--an eerie air of contained menace--raised gooseflesh on Tina's arms and neck. 

Scamander paled, then collected himself. "It's an Obscurus. One I recently separated from a young girl in the Sudan."

Shock lurched through Tina. Mr. Graves seemed unsurprised.

"And you're telling me this thing's not dangerous."

"Not if it's contained."

Raising his eyebrows, Mr. Graves sat back. He turned his hand, and the magical field that held the Obscurus spun slowly in accord. 

"Maybe it isn't just smuggling contraband I should indict you for," he said, as if musing aloud. "Maybe it's weapons trafficking."

Scamander jerked his cuffed wrists in agitation. "An Obscurus isn't a _weapon._ It can't be aimed. To set it loose would be like--like lighting a bomb in your own face."

"And there are fanatics who would do exactly that in the name of their cause. Now, I'm prepared to believe you're not one of them. But suppose this thing had gotten loose like some of your other creatures did. Suppose it fell into the wrong hands." Mr. Graves' eyes darkened. "I hope you understand the seriousness of the situation here."

Head bowed over the cuffs, Scamander said he did.

Mr. Graves turned again to the floating Obscurus. "You say you were able to separate it from the Obscurial. To remove it."

Scamander's brow twitched into a furrow. "That's right."

"The girl. Did she survive?"

Gaze dropping to the table, Scamander shook his head.

Mr. Graves closed his eyes briefly. The set of his jaw turned grim. "So removing it kills the host."

"An Obscurus is a parasite," Scamander said. "It drains magical energy--the very lifeblood of magical beings. By the time I found her, the Sudanese girl was extremely ill, weakened to the point of death. I believe if I'd been able to reach her sooner, if she hadn't been in such a weakened state, I could've performed the separation without lasting damage. To either of them."

"You believe," echoed Mr. Graves. "You're not sure."

"It hasn't been done before. But I believe it's possible."

Mr. Graves studied him for a long time, searching. At last he gave a tight nod, and floated the contained Obscurus back into the case. 

"All right, Mr. Scamander. Maybe you and I can do each other a favor." He rose from his seat and picked up the case. "Goldstein, I'd like your help escorting the suspect."

Tina blinked. This was irregular. She was still suspended from duty, as had been made abundantly clear. "Sir?"

Mr. Graves gave a curt wave of his hand. "Both of you, come with me."

*

They Apparated to the rooftop of a stately townhouse in Gramercy Park. Tina stared at the neat columns of arborvitae, the pair of matched wrought-iron chairs. A door led to the interior of the building. Wand in hand, Mr. Graves stepped close to it and began to undo an intricate series of wards. 

As far as Tina was concerned, they'd catapulted straight past the irregular to the surreal. "Sir, is this--"

"My house."

"What are we--"

"You'll see." Mr. Graves waved them in, undoing Scamander's handcuffs as he did.

They found themselves in a narrow hall. Mr. Graves led them to another door, which opened (after more undoing of wards) onto a beautiful apartment: tall, broad windows, thick Persian rugs spread over hardwood floors. The fluted horn of a gramphone gleamed by the windows. None of the furnishings were new--the sofa had six clawed feet, in the "Wampus" style last in vogue before the war--but all exuded a fine masculine elegance. 

There was a fireplace, and beside it a pair of upholstered chairs. In one chair sat a boy, a young man, who startled upright, his skinny limbs unfolding from their self-protective curl--

"Credence?" yelped Tina.

Because it was: Credence Barebone, in sweater and trousers and stocking feet, clutching a leatherbound _History of Magic_ to his breast like a shield. He stood up, wide-eyed, as Mr. Graves approached. He looked less underfed than when Tina had last seen him, hunched beside his tyrant of a mother. The welts on his hands were gone. 

"It's all right," said Mr. Graves, speaking to Credence as one might to a spooked horse. "Sorry if we gave you a scare. Credence, you remember Tina Goldstein." Credence nodded. "This is an acquaintance of hers, Mr. Scamander."

Credence ducked his head. "Pleased to meet you." He looked up at Tina. "Thank you, Miss Goldstein. For helping me before."

"Of course, it--was the least I could do, it--" Tina shook her head. "How are you _here?"_ She wheeled on Mr. Graves with a look that shouted _who are you, and what have you done with the Head of Magical Law Enforcement?_ Her voice dropped to a hiss. "Are you keeping a No-Maj in your _house?"_

"He's not a No-Maj," said Mr. Graves. "He's the Obscurial."

Tina gaped. Scamander peered at Credence with fresh scientific interest. 

"He can't be. He's--"

"Too old? Trust me on this. You don't want to make him call the damned thing up. Everybody have a seat."

They sat: Credence in his armchair, Scamander next to Tina on the claw-footed sofa. Questions spun in Tina's head: how long? How could it be? And why was Credence _here_ , not at MACUSA? Before she could pelt Mr. Graves with any of them, he disappeared. He returned in his shirt sleeves and sat down in the chair nearest to Credence, flanking the fire.

"Mr. Scamander's something of an expert on your condition," he began.

Credence tilted his wan face at Scamander. "Did you have an Obscurus, too?"

"Ah, no," said Scamander. "Not--not personally. I have one in my keeping at present, but it's not...attached. But I've met other Obscurials. Well, one other. And I've studied the literature, such as it is. Credence, may I ask your age?"

"Nineteen," Credence said.

"Astonishing."

Before Scamander could succumb to the evident urge to poke--or to examine Credence's teeth for signs of heartiness--Mr. Graves leaned forward. "Mr. Scamander thinks he can help you," he said to Credence, at a pitch so gentle that Tina looked at him askance. "He's figured out a way to remove it. Get rid of it for good."

Credence went still. He turned to Scamander. "You can take it out of me?"

"I believe so, yes."

Credence wrung his hands. He looked back at Mr. Graves. "What happens then?"

"I can contain it," said Scamander quickly. "In a sort of, er, stasis field. A magic bubble. Very sturdy bubble."

"Oh," said Credence. "But--what happens to me?"

"You live like any other wizard." Mr. Graves sounded adamant, as if he were willing the words to be true. "And you can learn to do regular magic. Like any of us."

And MACUSA wouldn't have to neutralize the threat in some less savory way. The bottom dropped out of Tina's stomach. 

Credence said, in a husk of a voice, "You'll teach me?" 

For a moment Mr. Graves looked like a man who'd been scored in some soft underbelly Tina didn't know he had. In all her time as an Auror serving under him, she'd never seen him seem helpless. 

"I'll teach you as much as you want," he said.

"Then I want that." Credence turned again to Scamander. "I want to try."

"There are risks," said Scamander hastily. "Let's be very clear. The process may be difficult. But you appear to be in reasonably good health--yes? Astonishing, really. I think the chances of success would be quite good."

"All right." Mr. Graves braced his hands on his spread knees. "How does this work, and what do you need to make it happen?"

"In essence, I'll use a baited trap. I'll create the containment field and fill it with magical energy. The Obscurus will be drawn to that energy--to a new source of food--and enter the field. We use magic to sever any remaining connection to Credence, and close the field around it."

Mr. Graves frowned. "You said the Sudanese girl was ill when you did this. That she was dying."

"Yes."

"So it wasn't just bait that lured the Obscurus out. It abandoned a sinking ship."

"I expect that was a factor, yes."

"Well, it's a factor that Credence isn't dying," growled Mr. Graves. "So why would the thing take the bait?"

Silence in the room. Scamander cleared his throat. "If the bait were made sufficiently attractive--"

Mr. Graves expressed, by way of thunderous brows, exactly how unlikely he thought it that anything could look more delicious--to a magical parasite--than Credence. 

Scamander cleared his throat again. "I'm open to suggestions," he said. 

Tina looked to Credence. He made a small, stilted gesture with both hands.

"It wants out," he said. "But I'm its home. So it comes back."

"Can you sense anything else," asked Mr. Graves, "anything that might lure it?"

"It's no use pestering him," said Scamander, heedless of the stare he earned from Mr. Graves in return. Tina edged sideways to evade the blast of it. "It lives in Credence, it grew from his magic, but it's not him. It is its own creature. What does any creature want? Sustenance, a suitable habitat--"

"Safety," said Tina. "Protection from harm."

"Not to be alone," said Credence, in his quiet voice. He was looking at Mr. Graves as he said it. "To have a friend. Someone like itself."

They all blinked. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked. Then Scamander started to smile. 

"Credence, you're brilliant," he said.

*

Scamander had the supplies he needed, he said, but it would take some time to prepare. He was waist-deep in his suitcase when he paused to ask if Credence would like to help him feed his creatures. Credence looked at Mr. Graves.

"Go ahead, if you want," said Mr. Graves kindly. "It's better than the Central Park Zoo."

When they'd both disappeared into the case, Mr. Graves turned to Tina. "I could do with a smoke," he said.

They went out to the rooftop terrace. Mr. Graves didn't bother with a coat, or even his suit jacket, merely cast a Warming Charm. He ignored the chairs in favor of leaning against the stone railing. Tina had seen him smoke before, if rarely, when a case had him at the frayed end of his rope. There'd been no whiff of tobacco in the house.

She was barely a smoker herself, but when he drew the cigarette case from his pocket and offered, she took one and lit it as he did his, with a modest spell of flame.

"The attacks were correlated with the beatings," he told her. "And at least in one instance, nightmares. I've got shields here, so the thing can't break out of the house. But that's hardly a long-term solution. 

"Does anyone else know he's here?"

"The family house-elf. That's it." Mr. Graves took a drag on his cigarette. "Why haven't I brought him in? Because I know what the President would tell me if I did. I don't want to hear her say it. If Scamander can do what he says--" He broke off, rubbing his brow between forefinger and thumb. "I can overlook a loose Niffler, that's for sure."

Disquiet tugged at Tina. It wasn't that she wanted to see Scamander punished, not at all, but-- "Is that how it works?"

"Ah, Goldstein. You'd be amazed how much of this job is cutting deals. If he can rid New York of an Obscurus, it's the least we can do." Mr. Graves took another drag, then exhaled a puff of smoke. "When you went after Mary Lou Barebone, I couldn't figure it out. Why a professional of your caliber would go off like that." He flicked a crumble of ash. "Now I get it."

Tina smiled faintly. "I knew you weren't heartless, sir."

Mr. Graves puffed. "Right."

"He's a good boy."

"Yes he is." He cocked an elbow against the top of the railing, eyeing her. "How'd you stumble across Scamander, anyway?"

"It was outside the City Bank. Where the Niffler escaped." Some senseless compulsion to honesty made her add, "The Second Salemers were picketing."

"Tina."

"I didn't engage! I was just--worried. About--"

"Modesty," supplied Mr. Graves.

Tina nodded sheepishly. If she'd expected another dressing-down, it didn't come. Instead Mr. Graves startled her with a slantwise grin. 

"You don't know when to quit, do you?"

She blinked, then flailed a hand toward the interior of the house. "Pot calling kettle, sir!"

"Touché." He turned aside to gaze out absently across the neighboring roofs. The sky hung leaden, oppressively grey. "You don't have to worry about Modesty getting hurt. It's not going to happen." 

"You can't know that, not when there's a history--"

"I can, because I put Mary Lou Barebone under the Imperius Curse," said Mr. Graves, blandly, as one might say _I put the garbage in the trash can._ Tina dropped her cigarette, and had to bend to pick it up. He glanced sidelong at her fumbling shock. "I'm authorized. Executive order. Not for these purposes, of course."

"Why are you telling me this?" she whispered.

"Because somebody else ought to know. If I bite the dust, the curse could wear off, and then Modesty's out of luck." He frowned as if to himself. "That reminds me, I need to update my will. I swear on Merlin's pointy hat, when this business is done, I'm taking a week off. The President can go whistle." He stabbed out his cigarette butt on the railing, then disposed of it in a lick of flame with a flick of his hand. No wand. As always, Tina burned a little at the casual display of mastery. "Maybe not a week. A few days. Maybe two." His mouth twisted. "Credence needs new clothes," he added, sounding peevish.

It wasn't the longest speech Tina had ever heard from him, but it knocked her back like a flood. She steadied herself on the stone railing, searching for a response. "I could...take him shopping?"

Mr. Graves spared her blousy jacket and trousers a glance. "Thanks for the offer, but pass."

On their way into the house he stopped and took her by the elbow. "Tina. If this goes south, and I don't make it, get Credence out of here, if you can. Out of the city. My mother lives at Black Rock, up from Cornwall-on-Hudson. Tell her I sent you."

This was too much. Tina drew a deep breath, then laid her hand, greatly tentative, on his lower arm. Maybe it was a strange thing to do for one's boss--let alone when one's boss was this man, of all men--but not for a fellow creature in distress. 

"It's not going to go south, sir," she said.

*

They decided to try it in the ballroom. Tibby's wards extended to the entire house, reasoned Graves, and in the ballroom there was no furniture to smash.

"You have a ballroom," said Tina, as they trooped downstairs. "Of course you do."

"Doesn't everybody?" 

At her uncharitable look, Graves added, "My mother used to like throwing parties. It's seen as much dueling practice as dancing, though. My father called it the _salle d'armes._ " It might be useful in that capacity again, one day, if only they could pull off the honey trap tonight.

Like the oak parquet floor, the chandeliers were spotless--not a mote of dust, despite years of disuse. The windows were shuttered and curtained. Tina and Scamander lit mage-lights and affixed them to the floor as Graves took down the chandeliers. 

When the room was as ready as it could be, Scamander disappeared into his case. He reemerged with his pet Obscurus, now doubly contained: a vast floating bubble surrounded the smaller one that enclosed it. A hole remained in the external field, like the opening to a glass terrarium. 

They took their places. Credence huddled on the duvet they'd laid out on the floor, on Scamander's advice that even if things went according to plan, he shouldn't expect to stay upright. Graves knelt beside him, one hand on his back, wand in the other.

Credence was trembling. At the sight of the other Obscurus he'd begun to rock forward and back, breath coming too quick and too shallow. Fear shone in his eyes, stark in the cool light of the magic lamps.

"It's all right," said Graves, too low for the others to hear. "It's okay to be scared. You can use that. Let it come."

Credence turned his face away from Graves. He hugged his knees. "I've never--let it out on purpose."

"I know. You've been so good. But it's time now. Time to let it go." Shifting on the duvet, Graves squeezed Credence's shoulder. "I want you to let it out, and I want you to stay right here with me while you do it. Just like we talked about." He slid his hand over the hunch of Credence's back, smoothing shudders that chased the passage of his touch. "You can do this, Credence. I know you can. You're going to get through this and come out on the other side."

Stifling a whimper, Credence nodded. 

"That's my boy."

He was still breathing too fast. Without warning he seized Graves' forearm, below his wand hand. His eyes looked like swallowed moons. He spoke in a fervid whisper.

"Mr. Graves, if this doesn't work--"

"Now don't you think like that," said Graves, with a sternness born of fear. Credence jerked his head.

"I'm not. I want to live." His stare grew wild. "Just--thank you. For everything. Even if it doesn't work, I'm glad I knew you." He flinched against some internal tumult. "Please be safe."

"Oh, Christ. Credence--"

Credence pitched forward, open-mouthed, as if about to vomit. He clenched his eyes shut.

 _"Shields,"_ Graves snapped to Tina and Scamander. He heard them casting, caught a glimpse of silver flares.

The grip on Graves' arm spasmed. There was a beat of silence, gravid and terse. 

Darkness burst out of Credence, a living black torrent. The force of it snapped his head back, wracking his limbs as it left.

The Obscurus stormed to the center of the room. Pulsing tendrils of it clung to Credence, anchored to his body, while the bulk of its mass gathered near the ceiling, forming a wall cloud that churned in slow maelstrom roils. Raw magic slashed from it like gale winds, whipping everything below.

Credence went taut in the curl of Graves' arm, then seized with shudders. His eyes rolled between white and dark. But he still clung to Graves, hard enough to grind the bones of his wrist. Graves held him close and readied his wand.

Scamander stood below the Obscurus, gazing upward with daunted awe. He sidled toward the containment field, talking as he went.

"Merlin's beard, you are a big boy, aren't you. Got nice and big, gobbling up all your mummy's magic--"

Graves shot a look of disbelief at Tina, who shook her head.

"--but he's had about enough. Time for you to hop out of the nest." He maneuvered the trap and its bait closer. "And look, who's this? Who's this? Someone like you? Wouldn't you like to see?"

As if it could understand him, the Obscurus roiled toward the entrance to the trap. It paused there, exploring the aperture with tongues of murk. It reached inside. When it touched the containment field that held the smaller Obscurus, its entire mass pulsed. Fires sparked within it, baleful red. With a hiss like shifting sand it began to flow through the opening, spreading to fill the space within.

Coils of dark spume still clung to Credence. He whimpered as they stretched, then flinched and scrabbled as they began to pull him, dragging him toward the greater bulk of the Obscurus and the trap. 

Graves gripped Credence, hulking over him, as if he could anchor him bodily to the floor. His right hand tightened on his wand. He raised his eyes to where Tina stood, squared and ready.

"No, no, that won't do," Scamander was saying. "You can't take him in there. You'll have to let go."

The Obscurus hovered at the trap's entrance, half in, half out.

"Come on," cooed Scamander, "in you hop--"

The tendrils clinging to Credence thinned to vaporous trails. To Graves they looked as thin as they were going to get. Eyes burning, he mouthed at Tina: _now._

 _"Diffindo Maxima,"_ she cried, and cracked her wand like a whip.

The spell sliced the cords of darkness, cutting cleanly as a cleaver through meat. 

Credence arched. His limbs went rigid, then violently shook. His mouth hung open, but it was the Obscurus that screamed: a mangled, inhuman noise, the shriek of a derailing train. It hurled itself free from the trap's opening. Teeth bared, Graves flung up his Shield Charm and fortified it, sealing himself and Credence within its dome. He poured all his strength into it, unstinting, with the recklessness of opening a vein.

The Obscurus descended. In the heartbeat before its rage covered them, Graves saw it blast Tina across the room. 

He crouched with Credence in the center of the funnel cloud, holding his limp body, under a shell like moonlit glass. 

Darkness screamed and clawed around them. Gouts of fire and lightning spewed against the shield. If there was such a place as hell, thought Graves, this was an inside view of it. His heart battered in his chest, at the drums in his ears. The noise drowned out other sound. He heard the Obscurus roar as if from far away. He knew if it broke through this time, there wouldn't be a second chance. Maybe for Credence, but not for him.

When Graves had learned to cast the Cruciatus Curse, he'd learned you had to mean it. The more you meant it, the better it worked--and that was true of any spell. Sometimes meaning it wasn't enough, no matter how you tried. But you had to mean it first.

 _"Fianto Duri,"_ he said again, thickly, to the crown of Credence's head. He meant it. 

The shield held. Not only held, but grew, expanding outward, pushing back the storm, giving Graves and Credence room to breathe within. It shone like the heart of a star. Through it, beyond the howling dark, Graves glimpsed insistent flashes--not Obscurus fire, but Tina and Scamander, lighting up the room. Trying to draw the target. To _drive_ it, like a pair of madcap collies herding the world's most infernal sheep.

Credence raised his head, enough to look up through the shield at the Obscurus.

"Go," he whispered. "You can't come back."

Slowly, reluctantly, the storm began to recede. The clawed darkness that battered at the shield softened, then slithered limply downward, then withdrew.

The shield dimmed a little, enough that through it they could see Scamander, a crazed Pied Piper, leading the Obscurus to the open trap.

It hovered at the entrance, darkly rippling. For a long moment it refused to shift.

Within the small containment field, the other Obscurus moved: stirring, swirling. Its murky depths flickered. Maybe the flickers beckoned, thought Graves--who could tell?

Another beat, and the larger Obscurus flowed through the aperture, into the confines of the outer field. Behind it tatters of darkness trailed, a ragged bridal train. When the last of them had slithered in, it wrapped itself around the bubble that held its small cousin, and went still.

Scamander aimed his wand. The trap sealed shut. 

Silence rang in the ballroom. Scamander slumped where he stood, mopping his brow. Tina bent double over her locked knees, wild-haired and panting, then lurched toward Graves and Credence as the shield around them dissolved.

Credence was gasping, as if he couldn't hold enough air--as if there were too much space within his ribcage, too much capacity to fill. His head lolled against Graves' chest.

"Credence?" Graves cradled him, easing him down onto the duvet. "Credence! You stay with me, now--"

Credence tried to nod, but his head kept lolling, tipping back against the desperate brace of Graves' hand. Tina and Scamander skidded to their knees on his other side. Graves gripped his wand, a healing spell between his teeth, if only he knew where to aim it--where was the wound? And none of them a real healer--what numbskull gave this plan the go-ahead without a healer in the house? 

Scamander reached for his pocket. He pulled out a tiny phial and pressed it at Graves. "Give him this."

The phial held a single drop of liquid, pure silver. Tina stared. "Is that--"

"It was freely given," Scamander said. "She won't begrudge it. There'll be no curse."

Still cradling Credence's head, Graves brought the phial to his lips. "Credence, I need you to drink this. Just a drop, all right? Come on."

Credence's eyelids fluttered. He opened his mouth to let Graves tip the drop of silver onto his tongue. He swallowed. 

The most peculiar sound puffed out of him, like a breathless laugh.

"I thought it would hurt more," he mumbled, and passed out.


	8. Wand-Lighting Charm (Reprise)

**AN OBSCURE THREAT--CAPTURED!**

**New Yorkers Sleep Soundly Once Again**

_New York, NY -- A storm of unexplained magical disturbances that struck fear into wizard and No-Maj alike has ended, said a press release from the Office of the President of MACUSA. According to the statement, recent destructive attacks across Manhattan were caused by an Obscurus, the first seen in America in more than two hundred years._

_The Obscurial child, the unwitting source of the violent magical force, was taken into custody by MACUSA Aurors. Thanks to the advances of modern magic, the Obscurus was separated from its young host and destroyed. This marks the first time in history such a separation has been performed. The child, whose name has been withheld for the sake of privacy, is expected to make a full recovery._

_President Picquery praised the tireless work of her Department of Magical Security, led by Director Percival Graves, in solving the case. Mr. Graves was unavailable for comment._

*

Graves tipped the pages of the _Ghost_ to glance at the hospital bed, but Credence was still sleeping. For the past two days he'd done little else. Both Scamander and the healers likened his condition to the aftermath of blood loss: his magic would regenerate, but not overnight. 

In the meantime Credence was running on empty, or close to it. He woke to eat ravenously, muster wavery smiles for Graves and promise that he wasn't in pain, then conked out again. No Sleeping Draughts required.

He was out like a light when the President came to call late that evening. Graves rose from his seat by the bedside when she entered the room. He stood aside to offer the chair.

Picquery declined, choosing to stand by the bed and look down at the source of so much near-catastrophe: pale face on white pillow, dark eyelashes, smudged shadows under closed eyes. Her expression remained inscrutable.

"He really is just a boy," she said.

"And the world's first former Obscurial. Historic stuff. Great press, Madam President."

She gave Graves a look just shy of an eyeroll. "There'll still be an inquiry."

"Fine. Hold an inquiry. But if anyone in MACUSA finds him guilty of a damned thing when we're the ones who failed _him--_ " Graves stalked back and forth across the tight space of the room, past the foot of the bed. His voice guttered and grew savage. "Where was the inquiry when his right to be taught was denied? When that Puritan bitch was beating and burning him?"

"Calm yourself," said Picquery, in her blandest tone. "You'll wake up Sleeping Beauty."

Graves shut his yap. He let Picquery usher him into the hall. 

"I eagled Ilvermorny," she said. "I spoke with the Dean. They don't follow up on unanswered letters of invitation, not unless the child was No-Maj-born."

Clammy understanding settled in Graves' gut. "And he wasn't." It was in his mind to ask if she'd found out who-- _what family_ \--and then he stopped. It didn't matter, not really. Not unless Credence decided he wanted to know. 

"There was never an expectation that every wizarding child in America would attend Ilvermorny," added Picquery. "Even now some parents in the South and West prefer to tutor their children. Too great a hardship to send them so far from home."

Graves rubbed his mouth and chin with one hand. "This can't happen again."

"I agree," the President said. "I've spoken with the Dean about a change in policy. Are we still feeding orphans?"

He nodded. "Queenie Goldstein found another one. Not an Obscurial--an untrained witch. Thirteen years old. Escaped from a house of ill repute. Living on the streets."

Picquery closed her eyes, but only briefly. When she opened them again they were steely and clear. "We'll continue the program. Not in your department. You have other concerns. We'll keep Goldstein on, if she can handle the work." She nodded toward the sleeper in the room. "Who's going to teach him?"

"I am," said Graves. Then, after a beat, "He asked me to."

Her eyebrows arched. "Mazel tov?"

"Oh, cut it out."

The President allowed herself a minor smile. "We'll schedule the hearing when he's recovered. Good work, Graves."

She swept down the hall, leaving Graves to return to his bedside chair and cherish the pat on the head. Good job, Bruiser. Nice pooch. 

It was more than he'd expected when he'd made the choice to hide Credence at home, instead of doing his lawful duty. And Credence was beginning to stir, fingers curling on the fringe of the blanket as he shifted and stretched. His hair was mussed from the long day of napping. He turned his head to blink softly at Graves.

"I heard your voice," he said.

Graves' heart did its hapless somersault. It was aiming to become a regular gymnast. If nothing else, he supposed the exercise would do it good. 

"Sorry we woke you," he said. "You just missed the President of MACUSA." 

Credence's eyes went round. Despite the shadows under them, there was a lightness to his expression, a mobility, since he'd first awoken in the hospital. The difference was slight--hard to put a finger on, even for Graves--but it spoke of a relief from tension, a burden's absence. Graves crooked out a smile to reassure.

"Only a courtesy call. You're safe from her wrath." He pulled the chair closer to the bed. "How do you feel?"

The question was still a novel one for Credence; he gave it his full attention. "Sort of...hollow," he said. He spread a hand across his chest, over the white dressing gown. "But I feel all right, until I try to stand up and do anything." He sounded baffled, almost aggrieved. 

"Take it easy," said Graves. "Give it time."

"Mr. Scamander came to visit earlier. He thought seeing his creatures might cheer me up. I barely got into the case before I had to sit down." He tilted his chin. "But Daisy came to see me."

"Daisy?"

"The unicorn."

The one whose drop of blood had given Credence a lifeline, enough to hold him until they reached the hospital. Graves would've fallen to his knees and fed her all the golden apples in the world if he'd thought for a minute that she'd tolerate his presence. He was no pure-hearted youth, and no pure-hearted magizoologist either. He shook his head.

"Somebody ought to give that man a talk about names." He reached for the laden basket by the bedside table. "You already have dinner?"

"Not yet."

"Good, because I could use a hand with this. Tibby sends her regards."

The basket, like Scamander's case, was bigger on the inside. Graves waved his wand, and covered dishes came floating out to assort themselves in front of Credence on a tray: vegetable consommé, Waldorf salad, braised chicken with carrots and herbs. There was crusty bread with honey butter, a pear tart for dessert. And a couple of splits of bubbly, which Graves didn't mind popping, even if Credence didn't care to imbibe.

"It's not debauchery," he said serenely. "It's celebration. People drink wine in church, don't they?"

"Not like that," said Credence, eyeing the flutes.

Graves kicked back in his chair and crossed his legs at the ankles, admiring the sparkle in the glass. "You're missing out. Tibby sent the good stuff."

Credence stole repeated glances at the champagne as he ate, surreptitious and increasingly wistful. He worried his bottom lip.

"Could I…"

"Try a sip?"

"Just...to taste it."

Graves didn't smirk. He didn't tease. He poured a splash into the second flute, with all due ceremony, and handed it to Credence, who accepted with both hands, staring at its pale gold effervescence. Graves topped off his own glass and raised it high.

"To your health, Mr. Barebone."

The set of Credence's mouth was earnest, but his eyes were bright. "And to yours, Mr. Graves." 

He took a cautious sip. He made a face. There was a pinch of indignation in it, as if to say: all that wrestling with conscience, and booze tastes like _this?_

"Try it with the tart," said Graves. "Might grow on you. Next time I'll bring soda pop instead."

"I've never tasted that, either," Credence said.

The night nurse, a doughty witch in her fifties, came by with Credence's evening dose of Restorative Draught. Seeing the bottle on the bedside table, she pursed her lips.

"I'm obliged to remind you gentlemen that this is a hospital, and alcoholic beverages are not allowed on the premises."

Credence set his flute down on the bedside table, looking cowed. A little too cowed, frankly. "Come on, Martine, the boy's never had champagne before," said Graves. "Have a heart. You want a glass?"

"No thank you, Mr. Graves."

"How about some pear tart? We can't eat all this, it's too much."

"Oh, well--don't mind if I do."

She accepted a piece of tart on a plate, smiling, and made no attempt to confiscate the bottles. After she'd left, Credence shifted onto his side on the bed, watching Graves sip away with impunity.

"It doesn't bother you that it's against the rules?" 

"I like good rules," said Graves. "Rules that help people live. I don't have much use for the ones that don't." He lifted his glass. "If Martine said no champagne because it'll hurt your recovery, I'd say fine. Save it for later. That's not what she said."

"'Woe unto them that decree unrighteous decrees,'" murmured Credence, reciting, though Graves couldn't have picked out the verse to save his life. "You trust yourself to tell which ones are which?" 

"Suppose I do, mostly." By way of trial and error, if nothing else. He had the gray hairs to show for it. 

"What if you're not sure?"

He had to think about that one, and then had to quash a smile at his own hubris. "I might ask somebody whose judgment I trust."

Credence seemed to accept this. "What if you respect the rule-maker," he said slowly, "but you still think the rule might be wrong?"

Graves had a funny feeling they weren't talking about champagne anymore. What brought this on, he wondered, but didn't ask. He didn't want to put a damper on the conversation. "In that case, I might have a talk with the person in charge, if I could. Maybe we could come to an understanding. If not--" He gave a shrug. "I'd say do what your heart tells you."

Credence tucked his arm under the pillow. He nestled his chin further into it, eyes at half-mast. "You give good advice, Mr. Graves."

"Yeah?" The sense of having cleared some unknown bar bemused Graves. "Well, take it with a grain of salt." 

Quiet settled between them then, easy as dusk drifting into night. Graves finished off his glass. When it was empty he went on holding it, idly fingering the stem. "You know, Credence, I've been meaning to tell you. You can call me whatever you want, but--"

He glanced over. Credence's eyes were fully closed, his breath coming soft and even. 

Graves set down the flute. He drew his wand to clean up and dimmed the lights. He left a piece of Tibby's tart on the bedside table, next to the stack of books, in case Credence woke hungry in the night.

*

Speaking of rulebreakers, Graves' office was suffering an infestation. At least this time they'd managed to stay out of the interrogation room. 

"I don't mean to be a bother," Scamander said. He sat with his hands between his knees, suitcase propped by his shin. Tina sat beside him, a watchful witness to his fate. "I'm grateful for your lenience with respect to my creatures, truly, and not insensible of the general desire that I remove myself from your shores. But I really must return Frank to Arizona."

"Frank," said Graves.

"My thunderbird. Well, he's not mine. I found him being trafficked in Egypt, and--"

"Couldn't leave him," said Graves. 

"I really couldn't."

Graves swiveled in his chair, surveying the pair of hoodlums: rogue Auror and stray ginger. Offensively fresh-faced, both of them. It was enough to make a man feel his age, even if he weren't feeling it already.

"I sympathize with your position." He couldn't blame a guy--or a lady--for wanting to set caged birds free. "But in light of what happened here, I'm sure you can appreciate my reservations about sending you cross-country with that case."

Scamander bowed his head. Graves rapped his thumb on the edge of the desk, considering.

"Miss Goldstein," he said. She sat up, ramrod straight. "Correct me if I'm wrong: you have three more weeks of suspension."

She pulled a face, then schooled herself to pained assent. "You're not wrong, sir."

From his desk drawer Graves drew out a sheet of letterhead, scrawled a note, and stamped it with his seal of office.

"Effective immediately, I'm naming you a Special Agent of Magical Security, Class I. Not an Auror, understand? Special Agent. You'll be reinstated as an Auror when your suspension's up. Your assignment, in the meantime, should you choose to accept it, is to escort this man and his menagerie safely out of the United States." Graves paused. "By way of Arizona." 

They blinked at him like flummoxed owls, then exchanged a sideways look.

"I," said Tina. Her fingers tangled in her lap. "I can do that, sir."

"You'll be reimbursed for travel expenses. I hear Phoenix is lovely this time of year." Graves swiveled. "Mr. Scamander, I trust you have no objections."

"Ah, no, none at all." The corner of his mouth twitched. "Grateful for the, the security detail."

"Good." Graves sat back again in satisfaction, stretching his legs under the desk. He liked it when all the pieces came together. "Now get out of here, both of you."

They stood, and then Scamander halted. "Sorry, one last thing." He gestured at his case, glancing with his keen eyes at Graves. "I have a few small items for Credence. I'd meant to give them to him directly, but perhaps I'd better give them to you."

*

Credence looked up at Graves' knock at his hospital room door. He smiled his small, private smile and laid his copy of the _Standard Book of Spells_ aside. 

Forgoing the chair, Graves sat on the end of the bed, still in his coat. "How you feeling?"

"Better. The nurses say I can go home tomorrow." Credence caught himself, and the smile waned. "I mean. That I can be discharged."

"You can call it 'home,'" said Graves, "if you want to."

Credence lowered his eyes. "You said--" He spoke haltingly. "When you asked me to stay with you, you said it was just until we knew the Obscurus couldn't get out."

Graves could've muttered a curse at his past self. But he'd figured he was bound to make a hash of this, one way or another.

"Sometimes your memory's a little too good," he said. Then, when Credence continued his mournful drooping, "You're welcome to stay, Credence. As long as you want. It's your choice. When I was your age, I couldn't wait to live on my own, but that was me then. This is you now. If you want your own place, we'll find you one. But I'm happy to have you around."

"I don't...want to be in the way," said Credence, not looking up.

"You're not. You can get that in writing, under VS."

Credence frowned faintly. "What's VS?"

"Veritaserum. Truth potion. Handy in interrogations." Graves nodded sideways, toward the spellbook on the bed. "You still want me to teach you?"

Biting his bottom lip, Credence bobbed his head.

"Be easy to do if you were right there in the house."

Credence's hands curled on the blanket. "You think so?"

"I do." Leaning gently, Graves craned his neck to peer at the downturned face. "That a yes?"

Another nod, repeated, and with it the beginnings of a smile. 

"All right, good." 

Graves told himself there was more to the offer than gross selfishness. It might even have been true. Sooner or later Credence would be ready to take off, and when that happened, it would be Graves' job to let him go. If not with grace, then with some sad approximation of it. Not all the cartwheeling of his heart could change that. But for now, at least, for a little while, maybe he could hold onto this rare sweetness. Keep it, and guard it, and let it grow. 

He reached into his coat. "If I'd known they were setting you loose tomorrow, I might've saved this, but--anyway."

From his pocket with the Extension Charm he drew a long, thin oblong box. He laid the box on the bed and slid it toward Credence across the blanket.

Credence stared. It was easy to glean from its shape what the box might hold. He looked mutely at Graves.

"Go on," said Graves, fighting a smile.

Credence sucked in a breath. He reached for the box and opened it slowly, unfolding the cloth wrapping within.

The wand was pale, the color of ivory. A flock of carved birds encircled the handle, culminating in the largest, a fantastic creature that soared on six wings. There was no metal inlay, only the smooth wood, the suggestion of the glory of flight.

Credence drew the tip of one finger over the carvings, tracing their intricacy. He seemed gun-shy, afraid to remove the wand from the box.

"Now, if this one's a poor fit, you're not stuck with it," said Graves. "We can send Wolfe back to the drawing board. You've got plenty of options for cores, courtesy of Scamander's pals." Two strands of unicorn hair and an Occamy plume, among other things. What Credence didn't keep, he could sell to a wandmaker for good money. "I hear the youngest Ollivander's doing decent work in London, but he's only been at it a few years. Shikoba Wolfe's a master."

"What kind is it?"

"Birch." From a tree at Black Rock, near Hemlock Pond; Wolfe was finicky, and rightly so, but the sample Graves brought had passed muster. _Birch for beginnings,_ Wolfe had said. _For renewal and protection, and dispelling the Dark. With the right core, it is proof against flame._ "And thunderbird feather. Kindly donated by Frank." 

At last Credence reached for the wand. 

When he took it in hand, a wind rose in the room. It was too mild for a whirlwind, too temperate--quick eager eddies of clear air. They tousled the hair on Credence's head, riffled the white curtains on the window and the pages of the open book. With the wind came a rushing sound, the sough of water or stirred leaves. The scent of rain filled the room, a promise of green growing earth. 

No fire. No smoke. 

Graves thought he could be pardoned a touch of smugness. "How's it feel?" 

Credence only looked at him, eyes gone bright black and depthless. He gave the wand a careful sweep.

 _"Lumos,"_ he said.

A light bloomed at the tip of the wand: not a stifled ember, but a steady glow of silver-white. Another appeared after the first, floating beside it, then another. Credence gripped the flight of birds on the wand's handle, staring, not daring to exhale. 

The lights flowered into a constellation. There were dozens--no, hundreds of them, floating between bed and ceiling, like a chorus of white fireflies hailing the room. When Credence let out his breath, they trailed into a shower of silver glimmers, falling slowly without fading through midair.

Graves lifted a hand, palm upward, to catch a little dab of glow.

"There it is," he said. He felt his heart might crack with his grin. "Make it rain."

*

_Three Weeks Later_

They crammed into a single booth, all five of them: Miss Goldstein and Mr. Scamander on one side, Mr. Graves and Credence and Modesty on the other. Modesty had clutched Credence's sleeve and balked when they walked in, less at the spectacle of a diner full of real live witches than at the plate of chicken salad whizzing past her head. Now she was poring over the menu, touching its moving illustrations with tentative fingers, like the small paws of a fascinated cat. Merope the waitress stood patiently, notepad in hand, waiting for her order.

Modesty looked up at Credence, and to Mr. Graves on his other side. "Can I really get whatever I want?"

"Anything," said Credence.

"Then I want a hamburger. No, a cheeseburger. With _bacon_ on it. And French fried potatoes and fruit salad and a chocolate malt."

"You'll never finish all that," said Credence. He grasped her menu, as if to yank it from her hands before she could wallow in further greed. She frowned at him and tugged it back.

"Will too."

"Let her try," said Mr. Graves. "Kid's ambitious. I like it."

Credence turned partway toward him, not quite looking at his face. He thought of the last time they'd come to Johncy's, of his unambitious ham and cheese on rye. 

"You wish I ordered like that," he murmured, with sudden understanding. "Don't you."

Mr. Graves only smiled--even without looking at him directly, Credence couldn't miss it--and reached for his coffee. "You order however you want." To Miss Goldstein he said, "We got your postcard. Nice of you to send it."

"Oh! I'm glad it came through. No-Maj mail is always a gamble, but Newt kept saying--"

"It's the stamps," said Mr. Scamander. "Muggle stamps. Something about them, I don't know. I like to collect them. I thought Credence might enjoy it."

"I've never gotten real mail before," said Credence. "Thank you for thinking of me."

"So, the Grand Canyon," said Mr. Graves. "Is it everything it's cracked up to be?"

Miss Goldstein's stare suggested she suspected him, not for the first time, of being an imposter. "Sir, did you just make a pun?"

Poker-faced, Mr. Graves sipped his coffee. "Just small talk, Agent Goldstein."

"Right. The Canyon. It's--" she fluttered her hands. "Amazing. I can't--words can't do it justice."

"Neither can pictures, really," said Mr. Scamander. "Sort of thing you've got to see for yourself."

"Is that where you set Frank free?" Credence asked.

Mr. Scamander shook his head. "Too many sightseers. We went further into the desert." He thumbed at the handle of his teacup. "I'll miss him. But he was happy to be where he belongs."

"Conjured up a big cloudburst, with a rainbow after," said Miss Goldstein, smiling.

Mr. Graves nodded as if all this were copacetic, just as expected, just as planned. "And no complications along the way?" 

"Well." Mr. Scamander glanced sidelong at Miss Goldstein, who was ducking her chin. "There may have been a slight incident with a Chupacabra--"

Miss Goldstein balled a hand over her mouth. She seemed to be trying not to snigger. Mr. Graves' eyes narrowed in her direction.

"Do I want to know about the Chupacabra?"

"All taken care of, sir. I'll, um. I'll cover the salient details in my report."

"Please do." Mr. Graves turned his eye on Mr. Scamander. "How about Mr. and Miss Murky?"

"They're fine," said Mr. Scamander, setting down his tea. "At least, I presume they're fine. There's been no change in condition. I did stop keeping them separated. Of course I was wary of mutual aggression, or that the bigger one might simply absorb the smaller, but there's been none of that. They appear to spend much of the time, erm."

"Hugging," said Miss Goldstein, with delicacy.

"For lack of a more scientific term."

Mr. Graves looked as disconcerted as Credence felt. "So it's Mr. and Mrs. Murky now? Are they going to make Murky Junior?"

"I really couldn't say." Mr. Scamander gave a lopsided shrug. "They're the only two of their kind in the world." He turned. "How's that feather holding up, Credence? Any luck?"

Then Credence, despite a flush of confused embarrassment, was obliged to present his wand to the table. Miss Goldstein exclaimed. Mr. Scamander admired the beauty of the woodwork. Modesty just stared.

"Do you _all_ have wands?" she asked, accusing.

There was a general showing-off session. Modesty seemed torn at first between outrage and envy, then took it upon herself to judge which wand was best. She pretended to deliberate before pointing at Mr. Graves'.

"That one. It's shiny. And it's the biggest. It looks evil."

"Posh evil," Mr. Scamander agreed. "I'd suspect the owner of Dark wizardry, too. If I didn't know better."

Miss Goldstein was covering her mouth again. Mr. Graves returned his wand to his pocket with an air of offended dignity. "Ebony's a respectable wood," he said.

When the food arrived, Credence took Modesty's hand in his, and together they said grace. The others didn't join in, but waited until the prayer was done.

For a time conversation lagged in favor of eating. Halfway though her bacon cheeseburger, Modesty said, "I used to have a wand. Not a real one. Just a toy. Until Ma found it."

Credence's breath stopped. The soup went cold in his stomach. He looked down at Modesty, at her pale pink hands. There were no marks, no scars.

"She snapped it in half, just like in the pictures. I thought I was gonna get it. But Ma said God forgives me, and I have to clean the toilets for a month." She made a sour face. "Chastity's been _awful."_

She went back to demolishing her cheeseburger. Slowly the fright seeped out of Credence, leaving his shoulders slumped. He turned to Mr. Graves. He didn't speak, but his eyes must have asked the question for him, because Mr. Graves gave a barely perceptible nod.

"Tell you later," he murmured. He stretched his arm along the top of the booth, behind Credence's back.

Credence looked down at his soup. It was chicken dumpling, the same kind Mr. Graves had served that first day, in the kitchen at home. It tasted as sustaining now as it had then, as rich in necessary things. Its warmth in Credence's belly and the arm behind his shoulders seemed of a piece, the essential stuff of some feeling he didn't dare name. He felt as if he were being held, even though Mr. Graves wasn't touching him. 

He lifted another spoonful to his mouth, resolved to eat every drop.

"I'm sorry to hear it," said Mr. Scamander. "Tell me, Modesty, how would you like to meet a unicorn?"

She put down her chocolate malt and stared. "Unicorns _exist?"_

"'Course they do. Same as witches and wizards."

Modesty frowned at Mr. Scamander, still uncertain. "Ma said they all died in the Flood. That it was God's punishment."

"Punishment for what?" asked Miss Goldstein, incredulous. "For being beautiful and sweet-natured?"

"For magic," Modesty said. Mr. Scamander twitched.

"As you grow older, you may begin to find that not all the things your Ma has told you are altogether accurate." He hunkered over the table, elbows splayed, fixing Modesty with his eye. "I can assure you, unicorns are alive in the world. If you like, I can prove it."

"She'd probably scare her away," murmured Credence. He wasn't about to admit that Daisy had run from him, too, the first time he'd gone into the case. _Not from you, Credence,_ Mr. Scamander had said. _From the Obscurus. Unicorns are highly sensitive to Dark magic._

It had hurt, even as Credence understood the fear: he'd felt it himself. But she wasn't afraid anymore.

Enraged, Modesty thumped him on the arm. He heard a low huff from Mr. Graves. 

"Ah-ah," said Miss Goldstein, pointing a sharp finger. "No hitting. Unicorns don't like it."

"They really don't," Mr. Scamander said.

*

Miss Goldstein and Mr. Scamander volunteered to take Modesty home after her suitcase adventure, since Mr. Graves had to return to work. Credence knew he should be the one to take her, but the thought of going near the church made his heart falter, his belly clench. 

The clench eased a little when Modesty reached for Miss Goldstein's hand of her own volition. They said their goodbyes and parted ways. 

Standing in the breezeway of the diner, Mr. Graves asked if he wanted a lift home. "Won't be long before you can do it yourself," he said. 

Credence glanced through the windows to the laden sky. The morning air had smelled like snow, but his coat and gloves and sleek new scarf were wonderfully warm. 

"I think--I'd like to walk for a bit?"

Mr. Graves opened the door and held it. "I'll walk you to the station," he said.

On the street the wind played in capricious gusts. Other pedestrians made way for Mr. Graves, and for Credence by association. Credence was beginning to grow used to it: to a clear path toward anywhere the two of them were bound. Mr. Graves walked with a thumb cocked on the hilt of his wand. His brows knit closer together.

"You don't think it looks evil, do you?" 

"I think it's beautiful," Credence said. 

"It was years ago that I had it made. What can I say. I liked things a little flashy when I was young."

"When you were young," murmured Credence. 

Mr. Graves caught his look. His mouth flattened on a smile. The arch of the subway entrance rose ahead of them. They stepped into its shelter as the wind swept up Mr. Graves' coat and made it flare.

"You get back to your lessons, Barebone." His voice had gone low with false gruffness. The pitch of it purled up Credence's spine to bloom in bright prickles at his nape. The feeling reminded him of carbonation, of the bubbles of champagne. "I'll see you tonight."

Credence stood in the subway entrance and watched him go--the broad slope of his shoulders, the ripple of his black coattails, the startling tease of white when their lining showed--until Mr. Graves vanished around a corner, into some alley to Apparate away. 

Reaching into his pocket, Credence grasped the birch wand. He pressed the pattern of its carved handle into the flesh of his palm. The feel of it was already familiar, a ready consolation. Words formed in his mind, the Spanish ones, the ones that were the most important, with the vibrant gravity of a spell.

Maybe they would be a spell, if Credence raised his wand and spoke them. He wasn't sure what would happen if he cast it, what it would bring into being. Something like the shield Mr. Graves raised, maybe, the one that no darkness could enter, not even a storm of Credence's own making. Or a white canoe that slipped across water, carrying them to a far hazy shore.

Or something altogether different. In that moment anything seemed possible: even the asp in his breast that hissed _damnation_ was still. The law his Ma had preached had been the old law. He had a new covenant now. He drew a wild breath and raised his eyes, then stepped out from the shelter of the archway. From its roof a pair of pigeons scuffled into flight. 

The first bright flecks of snow were whirling earthward, downy on the wind.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to all who've left feedback for the continued support!
> 
> Black Rock Forest is real, but I've taken liberties with the geography.
> 
> Credit for the paper Wampus goes to morwrach--I loved it and hope you don't mind that I've borrowed it here. 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr: [unicornmagic.tumblr.com](http://unicornmagic.tumblr.com/)


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